


sure as the ocean tide

by xxcaribbean



Category: The Get Down (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece & Rome, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Coming Out, Country & Western, Crossdressing, Happy Ending, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Kindred Spirits, M/M, Past Lives, Reincarnation, Royalty, Soulmates, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-08 20:27:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12261501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxcaribbean/pseuds/xxcaribbean
Summary: when dizzee meets thor, he knows they’re strangers in a strange land, a place that doesn’t quite accept them. but he feels, underneath the dust and bones of his beating heart, there’s something missing between them, something he can’t quite put his finger on. his kind of words always reflect his mind and aren’t always poetic, but maybe he could sing praises when he realizes that the words kindred spirits had never been coined from drug-filled illusions.





	sure as the ocean tide

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was inspired by _past lives_ by borns. it also loosely follows the tv show. there are scenes/elements from the show that were used, but the timeline may be off or things were added/changed. i just wanted to clarify that in case of any confusion.
> 
> there's also a character death tag. i didn't mark the fic as major character death, however, because it kinda happens but everyone's alive in the end (other tags give it away tbh). if y'all think it's enough to warrant the archive warning, i can add it. but i didn't really think it was necessary given the context and ending of the fic.
> 
> also, forgive me, but this is only half-beta'd because i'm lazy, so please excuse any mistakes!! i hope the fic's okay, though. xx

++

The moment their skin touches, bursts of colors explode behind his eyelids. With vivid details and imagery, art imitating life, and words he knows that have gone unspoken, he feels like maybe his soul has been ripped away from his body only to be forcibly replaced with one that has seen and done a thousand actions he doesn’t remember initiating, has no way of expressing.

He can’t comprehend why he sees this man in reflections, even before he’s laid eyes upon him _now_. And he can’t explain why he sees war and bloodshed, gold and swords, and lands so foreign, it makes him weep.

Dizzee opens his eyes and feels like maybe he’s looking at the past or the future, or maybe it’s something in between. When he opens his mouth to ask the questions buzzing around in his head, he realizes how out of place, how otherworldly it would be to request a complete stranger to give him answers on whether they’d met somewhere outside of barriers, in the clouds and beneath the dirt, in all the crevices the world has to offer.

Instead, he says, “Thank you,” rather than giving into the intensity of a white-hot burn that runs just beneath the skin of his arm under the man’s touch, one out of a similar fight of resistance.

Those eyes, those piercing deep eyes look back at him, and the man next to him, the one who had saved him from serving a jail sentence, only nods.

For Dizzee, the kaleidoscope of colors hangs just on the outskirts of his vision, threatening to consume him whole if he doesn’t blink them away. And once he does, he finds that he’s still here, and that boy is still there, and for once, there’s no explanation.

For once, Dizzee doesn’t understand himself at all.

++

The place is full of patrons, and he wonders if it’s a good idea to show his face. He’s aware people are looking for him, but he’d like to safely assume that the law hasn’t traveled down from other states, replacing old wanted posters for crisp papers that reflect his image.

He wonders how much the award money has grown for his person in the span of a week since they last spotted him. It’d been a close call, but he’s fast and sharp-witted enough to make a city his home for one night until he leaves early the next morning. He’s heard many whispers around his name; he’s a ghost in the night as some like to say.

Walking up to the swinging doors, he can see the dust and debris in the sunlight from riders traveling by, horse hooves kicking up dirt in their wake. It almost leaves a billowy cloud in this dry town, and he knows he’ll have a layer of grime clinging to sweat due to arid weather. What he desperately needs is a wash, fresh clothes, and a good night’s rest.

As soon as he’s inside, he’s given no attention, not with everyone distracted tossing coins for a quick gamble. It’s how he’s able to saddle up to the bar, throw down a coin for a shot of whiskey that burns his throat and tends the fire already burning up his blood.

Riding for hours, no matter how experienced, is a daunting, lonely, dreadful task.

“Something I can help you with, sugar?”

The second shot goes down smoother than the first, already accustomed to cheap alcohol without having to get piss-drunk to tolerate it. It’ll take a couple more drinks before it affects him, but he likes how it loosens aching muscles, releases the tension gnawing at his neck and shoulders.

“A room would be nice,” he replies gruffly, throat well-past dry. Whiskey probably isn’t the smartest thing to be drinking when his body craves water, but it’s been a long day; hell, it’s been a long few weeks, and he hasn’t given himself a moment to enjoy the simple pleasures in life.

“Are you always this apathetic to conversationalists, or are you just a man of very little words?”

He snorts, turning to the company he hadn’t sought out. Though he knew he’d be approached, he hadn’t picked the prettiest of places to find a room, gave a few dollars for a stable hand to care for his horse and randomly sought the closest establishment that would give him what he needed for the night. There wasn’t a need for a palace adorned with intricate decorations and lavish paintings. He bet if he’d walked up the stairs in this joint, the stairs would creak, the walls were thin enough to hear neighbors, and the service would be excellently sub-par. His standards were never very high, and the chance of someone remembering him here is next to nothing. The clamor for alcohol kept men busy, as did the card games and pretty saloon girls sitting on their laps. It’s the perfect hideout in plain sight.

So, his newly found companion isn’t necessarily unwelcome, and part of him expected it with all the gambling drunkards that liked to appease their reprehensible appetites. But he certainly wasn’t expecting an establishment that catered to the needs of all men – and women, if he looked beyond his proximity.

A gorgeous set of eyes blink back at him, blond hair pinned up and curled. Loose pieces of hair frame this stranger’s face, accompanied by a sharp jaw and full lips. A quick look and one would mistake this beauty for a woman given the attire and the delicacy, but on further inspection, the width of the shoulders is a giveaway. He’s heard about such wonders, men dressed as women and vice versa, but to be in the presence of a male in a skirt isn’t an oddity like those in the east, who curse under their breath that the devil has taken over the west, make it seem.

He leans against the bar, now fully facing this guest who has infringed upon his personal space. “Suppose that depends on the company.”

Earning a grin, his visitor knocks his knuckles against the bar, catching the attention of a woman on the other end of it. “A key,” he says, voice deep and betraying the mirage of a typical saloon girl.

It’s then he takes a cue to observe the room, a man with his stiff fingers dancing over the keys of a piano nestled in the corner, while chatter rises above normal volume. They’re all trying to speak over the voices in the room, and he watches as one man spreads his cards neatly across the table, laughing louder as he reaches for the pile of cash and trinkets he’s won for the night.

“Don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

He knows his newfound company was fishing for details or else he wouldn’t have asked. It’s clear they’ve never met by their introduction, and he’d never been one for small talk anyway. Though, he caves because he won’t be here in the morning, and by the end of the week, his existence will have faded from memory like smoke from a cigar. “Good. It means I’m easy to forget.”

“Is it?”

Turning with narrow eyes focused on his mysterious company, he smirks. “If you know what’s good for you.”

Instead of being met with endless pleasantries, he receives a laugh, one genuine enough to keep his interest. He hadn’t come here to make friends, to make money, to make love; he was on the run from individuals who most likely wanted him dead. But the ability to converse normally without worrying if someone would hold a knife to his back, without having to necessarily calculate whether or not they’d pull a fast one on him, is refreshing in and of itself. Briefly, it makes him wonder whether the life he chose had been the right one for him. Could he have been an honest man, done right by the law, and held his tongue in the face of beliefs he didn’t agree with?

The answer to that, of course, is no, but the thought is there regardless.

“I’ve a room for you,” is said, breaking him out of his thoughts. He’d blush if he could, hide away the mistake he’d made in staring at this saloon – woman or were they a man - for too long. But under his watchful eye, it doesn’t seem like his companion minds. There’s a key in the palm of his hand, slightly rusted and brown like it’s been used a hundred times.

“Do you have a name?” he asks suddenly, feeling a pull that leads him into dangerous waters. He wasn’t supposed to stay for long, just needed somewhere to wash up and get some sleep before being on his way, rather than enjoy himself in frivolous gambling games that go on far longer than necessary. And yet here he is caught in the trap of this captivating beauty, giving him the need to take the key and find his room alone. It’s growing increasingly difficult to remind himself of these things, let alone the fact that the entertainers here – a generous term if he’s ever heard one – are meant to ensnare.

Pleasures of the flesh have always been a fleeting thought for him, enjoying himself from time to time when he’s had a moment to spare, but nothing more. He’s never thought of settling down, and he’s never had the personality of a hardworking man unless it was to cheat his way out sticky situations, the thrill too lively to give up cold turkey.

But it’s a tempting thought now, is what he recognizes. Even without the offer laid upon the table, all he’d have to do is ask if he wanted and find whether he’d be riding out a high yes or a low no.

“Is this the part where I tell you mine, and you avoid me askin’ you the same?”

Damn, maybe this soiled dove has him figured out, though the corners of his mouth quirk up anyway. “Marcus,” he says, surprising himself at the ease in which his name rolls off his tongue. It’s been ages since he’s given that name to anyone, too afraid they’d recognize him, a man on the run, an outlaw, and report it to the nearest sheriff. Sharing details like this puts him and anyone else around him at further risk, and immediately he curses himself for his inability to keep himself in check near the first person that’s offered him a real moment of camaraderie.

His companion seems to contemplate that answer as if maybe he’s lied. But after a quick nod, gentle fingers brush over Marcus’ hand, the one resting on the bar, the one he’d used to down his whiskey in haste to avoid the tensity life’s given him.

“Theodore,” is the name given in return, a curiosity Marcus doesn’t feel the need to address. Of course, he would be naïve to believe he’d receive the truth in a place like this, but he supposes that’s a lesson learned. He’s not special enough to earn privy details, but there’s a game with underlying tones being played. If he’s going to take the bait, he might as well have a little fun with it.

Next thing he knows, he’s following Theodore around bar stools and tables filled with gamblers, not giving them an ounce of his time because he’s too busy watching the way the ruffles of the turquoise skirt glide against the wooden floor, a tailor-made dress suited for one occupant only. “Do you show all men to their rooms?” he asks in passing, not expecting Theodore to hear him over the crowd.

But he does, it seems, as he stalls on the first two steps of the stairs, casually turning with an arch in his brow. The reply he receives is simple, but Marcus knows a smirk of intent when he sees one. “Only the ones I like.”

Theodore carries on up the stairs, Marcus crawling after him seconds later wondering what kind of alternate universe he’s entered into. The town he’d found hadn’t been on any maps, located far into desert regions. Initially, he’d been surprised to find a lively city, a few outdated buildings and a few too many drunkards on the streets, but everything looked the part, nothing out of place, just a perfectly robust town that survived off the land and what little travelers they managed to attract. “Would it be a mistake to assume painted cats roam the premises,” he begins, knowing the enclave he’s provoking by outright suggesting such a thought. “Or maybe people are naturally friendly when money’s involved.”

They give pause again, halfway up the stairs, out of sight from the patrons. Marcus expects a slap for being forward, and he’s not looking for a night of fun, hadn’t even crossed his mind, really, but he’s not an idiot, and he knows a come-on when he hears one.

“Running a business isn’t easy,” Theodore says over his shoulder. He looks thoughtful rather than offended, fingers curling into the material of his dress to shift himself against the wall, room enough for someone to pass and at an angle that makes it easier to stare down at Marcus. “My partner and I tend to take what we can get.”

Cautiously, Marcus takes another step, careful not to trample the dress, but bringing their heights to a more reasonable level. “And here I thought this was a respectable establishment.”

Amusement colors Theodore’s face as he plays with the band of the necklace tied around his throat. Marcus hadn’t paid much attention to detail down at the bar, chalked up to weariness and a fixation on finding a bed, but in the soft light the falling sun provides through the window, he’s sorely contrite he hadn’t.

“Oh, I assure you, it is,” he acknowledges, front teeth finding purchase against the pink of his lower lip, gently biting around a display fondness. “But the sky is blue and coins are silver. Whatever it takes is all the same.”

Until he’s on the same step as Theodore, Marcus hadn’t realized he’d moved. It couldn’t’ve been more than ten minutes since he’d stepped foot in this dingy little place, and already, he’s roped himself into a predicament, one he doesn’t intend on fighting. It could be worse, he imagines, and he wonders how many more chances he’ll have left in life before someone finally snuffs him out. “I didn’t come here for this,” he establishes like he’s giving away another secret. Theodore probably knows this, playing it to his advantage where none of this actually means anything, a siren song called time and time again.

But to be invited by temptation, well, it’s never not been something he’s accustomed to. In recent years, it’s gotten him into a significant amount of trouble, which is why he’s on the run in the first place. But even with the notion that sin follows his foot trails, he’s always had a wild streak that’s kept him on his toes.

What’s life for but to take chances?

This time, it’s Marcus that reaches forward, consciously in case Theodore signals otherwise. Carefully he pulls the material of the necklace in between his thumb and forefinger, a thick, black circular ribbon with a trinket on the end that fell pitifully in between Theodore’s collarbones. The material is soft as silk trapped between his fingers, pale skin brushing his knuckles underneath where the material laid.

“Most men don’t,” Theodore whispers between them. “But my offer still stands.”

By stepping further into Theodore’s space, there are additional details Marcus takes note of, like the smell of a sweet perfume and the gentle use of rouge across his cheeks. He catches the thick swallow from Theodore, the one that lets Marcus know he’s not the only one affected by being in the presence of another alluring human being. “I don’t recall you making one.”

Quick as a snake, Marcus’ hand is captured by Theodore’s, the pad of his thumb rubbing soothing circles into his skin, distinct warmth forming. It runs down his arm, curls somewhere in his chest and down into his belly, and he’d lean forward and take want he wants if it wasn’t for Theodore’s penchant for making him come undone. “Then let me show you to your room, sugar,” he says, smoothly pushing Marcus away until his back is against the opposite wall. “I’m sure we can come to a compromise.”

There’s so much palpable between them aside from physical contact, but Theodore breaks it as quickly as they’d found it, releasing Marcus’ hand and climbing up the rest of the stairs.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, he takes the bait. Just one taste couldn’t actually hurt.

++

Time has a funny way of leaping into the sky, catapulting itself amongst the stars before pulling itself back down to earth, to the reality that the hands on the clock dictate humanity. Round and round those hands go, and Dizzee thinks that maybe he’d pluck the fingers free of monotony if it meant that souls within bodies could survive without structure or any sort of decency for management.

Though, he suspects, that if the world agreed to these terms of time, it must be relevant even if it means he doesn’t want to go but must. Cocooned within the smoke and the lights, Dizzee almost feels his heart drop to his feet at the notion that tonight is not forever. Being free brought hours of ease and a kiss from a boy that he’d grown fond of in such a short span of time, but he’s hanging on by a thread, ready to slip into the night and hope, pray, plead that it won’t be wiped from his memory as all the visions he’d uncovered had been before.

Because that was a puzzle he himself had not yet solved; his brain a jumbled mess of words and tales he couldn’t quite grasp, but the minute that boy – Thor, as he’d introduced himself – pressed his fingers close, the haze cleared, and Dizzee knew that they were one of two. A whole split in half, running towards the same goal.

Thor looks at him now, unsure of himself and so unlike the person Dizzee has gotten to know. It’s a staring contest at this point, the party dying down in the late hours of the morning. He licks chapped lips and shuffles closer, Thor catching his waist with the palms of his hands. “Thank you,” he says, words echoing around his ears, strangely familiar to when they first met. He thinks that maybe there’s a reason people have first and last words, a continuous language, an inside joke, familiarity only they can identify.

“For what?” Dizzee asks because hadn’t he been the one to follow in Thor’s footsteps, followed a line he’d led straight to this part of town, to the walls of the Bronx where paint sat drying or cracked from rough weather.

“You came,” he replies, but it’s not all he has to say. Somehow Dizzee knows that, like Thor’s got as many thoughts and words swirling around in his mind like he does.

Two peas of the same pod, maybe that’s how they understand one another.

“You came to see me again.”

An unusual feeling washes over Dizzee; an echo of his heart beating faster drives home the fact that this line is not new. Thor’s confession is not new, and his brows crease in concentration and frustration that somewhere deep down he knows _something_ but not the _what_. It’ll fester, and he’ll ruminate until it drives him mad that it’s on the very tip of his tongue.

When he looks at Thor, Dizzee doesn’t know what to say. He’s lost, feeling like an alien, like Rumi, all over again, and for the first time in his life, he panics. The calm of his body is easy to maintain, but he must not hide it well because Thor is there with his touch, with the tips of his fingers against the curve of his cheek. Dizzee breathes, relaxes against the coolness of Thor’s skin despite the tension unfolding underneath his chest.

Thor looks like he wants to comment but thinks better of it, and all Dizzee can think is _speak, speak and let me in, let me know_ and a harsh _save me_ that startles him down to the depths of his bones. “You’re the only one who understands,” he chokes, voice wavering in the midst of his confession. He’s known Thor for all of a minute, and yet he feels like clawing out of his own skin, burying himself within Thor’s heart where he knows he’d be protected.

These notions, as startling as they may be, only bring him comfort like the kiss that came hours earlier when he’d been sent into an unfamiliar but all too welcome galaxy. Dizzee doesn’t trust his voice again, but he does trust his heart, and when he overlaps his hand with Thor’s, the one resting on his cheek, he takes his chance and moves.

The brush of their lips is chaste, a hesitation on his part in case Thor is unwelcome to the idea of Dizzee tasting him again. But once the distance is closed between them, mainly due to Thor seeking him out and accepting his offer, Dizzee has no shame letting his body float into Thor’s orbit, pressed against the length of his body and thoughts cascading down the back of his spine into the black hole beneath his feet.

When it’s just the two of them, Dizzee notices that everything ceases to exist, the sounds and the lights, and he wonders if maybe they’ve teleported to another dimension where he’s a king and Thor’s by his side ready to rule the world.

Licking into Thor’s mouth, Dizzee tastes the ash of smoke and a hint of whiskey. It calms his frazzled nerves being this close to another human being, being this close to Thor. Realizing that human contact was a missing artifact in his life should startle him raw, but being touched-starved, he now knows, will be a thing of the past.

Because when Dizzee pulls away, he’s greeted with a smiling Thor, all anguish dissipated. The static in his brain has ceased, and nothing but time stands in their way. Rumi is calm inside, an alien at peace, and Thor’s fingers are pressing into the flesh of his hips. “You pick the time, and I’ll pick the place, and we’ll meet on the other side of the rainbow.”

Thor’s bruised, red lips curl further into a smile, a good look on him if Dizzee were to say so. But he keeps that to himself, already feels like Thor can see into his soul without even trying. “Then I’d say we have a deal.”

The end of a conversation always feels like the beginning, or at least in Dizzee’s case he’ll make sure it isn’t an ending. He’s too wound up to second-guess and too pliant like weed makes him feel, slightly addictive in his relaxation and lazy when he’s had too much.

But Thor isn’t too much, and he’s intoxicating in every way Dizzee may have him. Despite the lack of discovery within himself, at least tonight brought forth a revelation. A key unlocked and time well spent, Dizzee realizes he doesn’t have to define everything all at once. He’ll give himself time, and he’ll give Thor time, and he’ll find where he fits perfectly within this new world discovered.

Because somewhere deep down in that place he can’t quite reach, he knows every answer is there for the taking.

++

Spending the night in bliss allows his dreams to swell with rose-colored lenses full of pretty nights and breezy sun-kissed days that don’t leave him feeling like his skin will melt off his bones. In them, he smiles more, an ease that comes about when problems aren’t at the ready to prickle good moods, leaving them deflated and unusable. He can taste the wind on his skin, the feeling of pure freedom, and the first time he laid eyes upon a boy his age, garbed in robes and sandals. Pale blond hair sits upon this boy’s head like a halo, young and fearless, naïve of the world and what it will take away from him one day.

He wakes, eyes blinking and ears filled with commotion coming from outside the window, a square panel that looks down upon the streets of the town. It takes him a moment to gather his thoughts, mind blank with the effects of leftover sleep. Taking a moment, he realizes the heat he feels isn’t just from the little box of the room he’d stayed in but from the body laid out across the bed, pressed up against his with soft tuffs of breath escaping past bruised lips.

Marcus remembers, and he doesn’t regret, the solid ache in his body a fine tune of release and exploration. He’d take more time to admire it if he could, but again, the rough voices outside draw his attention, the ire and conviction sending chills down his spine.

He pulls on half of his clothes before he trails over to the window, a small group of people gathered around hunting rifles and horses. “ _Fuck_ ,” he says to no one, the curtain gently waving in the breeze. It obscures his face, protecting him from the visage of the group below, a hunting party after his ass because he’d slept in, it seems, if the sun were any indication of the time he’d lost. It’s well past dawn, clear as day, and Marcus is going to have the most difficult time leaving without getting caught.

“You’d probably enjoy it more if we were doing it.”

Theodore’s voice startles him briefly, hadn’t expected the other man to be awake yet. They’d done more than wore themselves out, and it looks as if he feels just as out of sorts as Marcus does. “The east is calling my name,” he says, turning away from the window. He searches for the last of his clothing, his shoes, his gun belt. It’s a terrible view to be on this end of a soiled night, clambering for clothes and leaving like his bedmate’s the whore.

But Marcus has no time to contemplate self-image, not when the hounds are close to sniffing him out and doing what they please, exacting revenge or justice, whatever they’re calling it these days.

“You’d make a ghost of yourself in this town so soon?”

Maybe in another lifetime he’d stick around for a bit, spend days absorbing the personality of the city, of the people, and what makes this town tick. He could have consequential conversations and weekends of fun after a grueling week of work he’d found at the last minute, enough to pay him a decent living and enough to save for the day he finally felt like running away.

Instead, he’s in the present, in a reality he half created for himself. He could’ve gone to school, done something spectacular with his legacy, but he chose the low road rather than the high, living up to a reputation he hadn’t completely intended to carry into the upcoming years of his life.

“Should’ve left at first light,” he quips, finding his boots at the end of the bed, quickly slipping them on one by one. “I never-” Shouts disturb his quarrel, a starch reminder that he truly doesn’t have the time for empty exchanges. The group on the streets will spread like flies, buzzing their way through every little building that’ll let them through without the sheriff’s blessing.

“Does this have something to do with that?” Theodore’s off the bed before Marcus knows it, pulling at drawers, which provide fresh clothing. He doesn’t have time to blink before Theodore’s at the window, arms shoved through the holes of a plain shirt, hair an untamed mess. He’s a nimble individual if last night taught Marcus anything.

He contemplates the answer to that question, though. Giving the truth will go one of two ways: he’ll find himself in the hands of the law or Theodore will let him escape. If he answers no, there’s a good chance he can make a run for it before Theodore gives chase. Knowing he doesn’t have a lot of time to think about the decision, Marcus rushes into it again, cursing himself and the inability to fucking _lie_ around this man who keeps him tongue tied in ways he doesn’t understand. “Yes,” he says with no other commentary.

He then thinks about his safety, and the he thinks about Theodore’s. And god what a fucking nightmare he’s found himself in.

Theodore seems to consider this, eyes glued to the streets, careful to stand at the curtain’s edge. “There’s a door out back,” he murmurs a few minutes later. “I could sneak you out.”

“You’re not at all curious as to what this is about?” Marcus asks instead. One of these days he’ll prioritize his ass over negligible forays of attraction and completely reckless idiocracies.

Theodore snorts, backing away from the window. For the first time, Marcus notices that the necklace is still tied around the other man’s neck, though a few bruises adorn the flesh of his skin, scattered across blood and bone like the constellations buried deep within the night sky. There’s a smug satisfaction resting upon Marcus’ chest when he recalls how they’d ended up there, the feel of Theodore’s hands undoing the belt at his waist as he begged to be fucked, skirts around thighs with Marcus’ teeth at his throat.

“You misunderstand,” Theodore says, that arch in his brow back again, amusement long gone from his stance. “I said I’d help you escape, not that I wasn’t inquisitive.”

Marcus acknowledges that, realizes that he’d have his hands full with this beauty if he had the opportunity to stick around, this decisive mortal blooming right before his eyes. “I’m a wanted man,” he says. “If they find you with me, you might as well be lookin’ at wanted posters with your name on it.” And he means that will full disclosure, unable to hide the truth of the matter he can’t even escape. He’s tried that, too, the menial tasks to stave off the veracity that’s come to define his life, a journey initiated months ago with no foreseeable end in sight.

He receives a rare smirk, the kind only the wicked know. It’s a bit outlandish with its arrival, but Marcus witnesses it nonetheless, sucker-punched by allusions. “Suppose there’s always a little room for adventure.”

Theodore takes his hand, quickly and efficiently dragging him out of the room, down the hall, ignoring the murmurs from behind closed doors, the creaking of beds, and soft cries of the desolate. This place is illuminated by shadows and minimal light peaking through obscure windows, almost as if it’s the mouth of a cave meant to swallow them whole, hunger pitch black and damp with every winding path it offers.

There’s another stairwell, Marcus realizes, hidden in between doors, bleak and odious. It reaches out its hand, however, when Theodore pulls him through, leading down the steps to the back of the building. Suddenly, there’s so much light, it’s almost blinding. Marcus can see the dusty outdoors from the glass of the window, allowing visitors a pardon through the maze if they’re unwilling to retreat and stay a little longer.

“There’s an exit at the back of the stables,” Theodore is saying, pointing out the window to the large double doors of a rusted red barn hanging on by nails and wood; it’s close to the brink of rotting away if Marcus has anything to say about it. Though, Theodore’s all hushed whispers and minimal movement, which draws his attention away from the derelict conditions of a booming town, a bit of an irony if the moment was right enough to call on it.

But it isn’t, and Marcus still doesn’t have a clue what time it is; he doesn’t know if their voices will travel past wooden walls, and he doesn’t know how far away the next town is given he hadn’t the opportunity to stock up on supplies in between the time he arrived and sunrise. On top of that, he sure as shit doesn’t know why Theodore is helping him escape. It seems too easy, too much like a trap set out for him; he’d appreciate it kindly if he wasn’t the fly in the situation, but god, aren’t they always attracted to honey. “How do I know I can trust you?” he whispers harshly, keeping up with Theodore’s theme in the event they’re too late and the sound of boots on the floor discloses the decline of his freedom, inch by inch and step by fucking step.

Theodore looks at him wryly, like the answer should be obvious to him, but forgiving him if it’s not. It’s been a bit of a hectic morning. “You can’t,” he says once he realizes Marcus expectant glare. “If I wanted you dead, you would be.”

Fair enough, Marcus thinks. He doesn’t necessarily have time for second-guessing anyway, and Theodore poses no threat to him now, no knife nor gun to his throat. So he shakes away suspicion like water off his back and concludes that his journey will continue forward for just a little bit longer.

In the midst of this insight, Theodore’s presence wraps around him like a barbed wire, straight to the point, deadly all the same. “I’d have hoped you’d stay longer,” he says, melancholy coloring what’s left of the exasperation Marcus had incurred. The tip of Theodore’s tongue traces the bottom of his lip, like he’s licking wounds before retreating back into an alcove. The familiarity hits Marcus like a train, but the wistfulness of Theodore’s shoulders, eyes soft and fleeting with unidentified emotion, pulls him back into the realm of the unknown. Marcus feels the itch to reach for Theodore, delicate fingers tracing the fine stubble across his jaw.

It’s only been a night, but he swears it feels like more than that. “Maybe,” he finds himself saying, like his promises actually mean something, as if he’s a dependable person and hasn’t spent the last year of his life on the run. “Sometimes these things hurt far worse than they’re meant to.”

His confession startles him, not because of what was said but because he actually means it. Nothing about this makes sense, and the pain behind his eyes is beginning to take affect, but Marcus doesn’t back down. As deplorable as he might be, the least he can do for Theodore – the least he can do for himself – is to be honest the one time it matters most.

“I’ll be seeing you then, Marcus,” Theodore says with a nod, a goodbye if he’s ever heard one. Though Marcus supposes it’s easier that way, easier to leave whatever this is with pleasantries and unresolved riddles floating in the empty space between them.

“Death’s certain,” he replies, lips twisting into something grim. The prospect of a happy ending seems too good to be true, and it is if he let’s the pessimist in him take over. Precious seconds are ticking away, a damp reminder of the future he faces, and it’d be bold of him to ignore it despite everything in him begging to remain still, to keep the hardest parts of his reality away from such delicacies such as this moment. “It’s only a knock away.”

“We will,” Theodore says adamantly after that. There’s so much confidence in his demeanor, it worries Marcus, but not enough to call the other man out on a potential bluff. The stakes were already set high, and even if he’s not a gambling man, he knows better than to bet. “I’ll see you around again soon.”

Without the chance for another word, Theodore cracks the door open, paving the way for Marcus to escape like he hadn’t been in this dusted town at all. The boots on his feet are quiet as he steps forward, so unlike the creaking of the stairs from the night before. It makes him feel dull and reminiscent, that even with as quiet as they are, as erased as the sound is to his ears, it’ll reflect the ghost of his presence. He was here, but not really, a shadow with life threatening to spill over, filled with all the secrets of what could have been and what will never be. It’s a defining moment, and Marcus hasn’t had too many of those; one hand to count them all will do just fine.

For the last time, Marcus feels Theodore’s fingertips brush against the back of his neck, a familiar tingle and a gentle push. He looks back once, finds straw-like hair spun into gold under the luster of the sun, and that moment will be burned into his memory for a lifetime.

Marcus turns, hoping it will ease the grief that’s somehow leaked into every beat of his heart and prays for all of their dreams to come true.

++

He’s learned to keep secrets, and maybe that’s a product of being an older sibling rather than the youngest. He knows when it’s best to spill the truth, or when it’s solid to keep his mouth shut in the most pressing situations. But if there’s one thing he’s never learned how to do, it’d be turning down the weird level a notch or two.

Dizzee knows how people see him, his art, his thoughts voiced allowed. They try to understand, and he appreciates the effort they go through for him; they care enough about him to listen. On the other hand, he struggles with the resentment that sometimes he’s not like Yolanda, clear as day with the voice of an angel. Nor is he like Ra-Ra with his enthusiasm and liveliness for the simple aspects of life. Boo-Boo, he thinks, is on another level and why they’d always been the closest, but even with that connection, Dizzee still thinks that his youngest brother is a little too fast with life.

Knowing better than to complain, he sorts himself out and rides out the days with his family like maybe they’ll hit an epiphany where Rumi makes sense and the green of his skin isn’t so otherworldly.

But until that day arrives, he’s content with being different. He’d never had an issue with it before except during lonely nights when his thoughts ate his mind, and he’d like to have a talk without breaking down his words into simpler terms. Rumi had always been his escape in moments like this, but Dizzee feels the thrill of change in the air, a wave of want he never experienced before. Thor entering his life had been the cause, and he’d simply been left with the effects of such a discovery. A piece of himself found, yet it also felt like there were millions more to go.

Trapped in his mind tonight, Dizzee thinks that maybe it’s time to talk. Whether it’s a welcomed change will be determined at a later date, but he’s tired and weary of hiding. Being with Thor has spoiled him.

“Say you found another world,” he begins, filling the silence like a balloon.

“What are you on about?” Boo-Boo interrupts from the floor where he’s got papers spread out in front of him and a book in his lap.

He’s studying, Dizzee guesses, hardly a bookworm but knowing better than to fail his classes. He’d worried slightly at the notion that maybe his brothers would focus too much on the music than their studies once the summer was over, knowing that sometimes passion tends to override every other sense of the body. But they’d stuck with it, same as Dizzee, and it brings warmth in his chest knowing his siblings have talents that span the width of the wings they dream about at night.

“Another world,” Dizzee repeats. “Say you found one and it felt like-”

Boo-Boo fixes his eyes upon him, none too pleased with being interrupted for what he believes is some foolish nonsense. Dizzee has the words, though; they’re right there in the back of his throat, but one word caught him up, surprised him even, and he wonders if he truly believes what his subconscious has already found to be true.

“Say you found one and it felt like _home_ ,” he says again. “Would you think that’s wrong?”

“You plannin’ on runnin’ away or somethin’?” Boo-Boo deadpans.

Dizzee shakes his head. It wouldn’t be plausible even if he wanted to. His melancholy is the result of Thor being locked up, bars encasing his freedom. Part of Dizzee hopes that his letters mean something more than the words he wishes to speak. Paper can’t always comprehend the way his thoughts move, and while he’s smeared the pages with drawings of Rumi and Thor on great adventures along with detailed accounts of the Get Down Brother’s escapades, it isn’t enough. Dizzee misses Thor, and the feeling should be so foreign to him, so new to him, but it isn’t. What it is is just plain difficult.

“When I find myself in the clouds above with Rumi by my side, everything makes sense,” Dizzee explains. His throat hurts with the growing sensation of it closing off; he’s never been one to cry with frustration and sadness because he’s always had a way to process his emotions delicately. But this is something else, some deep sadness that fills his stomach with dread and anxious butterflies. “It’s led me to more adventures where I feel like I could stay up there forever.”

Not a word is said after that, and Dizzee curses himself for letting his emotions play him the fool. He knows nothing lasts forever, and that Thor will be out soon, and Dizzee will have a place to stay again. But it’s the first time in his life he’s experiencing the temporary loss of a soul intertwined, and it makes him wonder if his parents have ever felt that kind of suffocation.

The bed dips next to him, Boo-Boo curling into his side in a gesture that Dizzee remembers all too fondly. Thunder had always scared his brother, and if Dizzee had to play protector, he’d do it in a heartbeat for any of his siblings. But now the tables have turned, and he’s the one that needs comfort from the storm that rages through his head. There’s a hurricane inside; he can feel it growing regardless of how vigorously he tries to tame it. The strength he thought he had to create peace is temporarily suspended, and Dizzee wonders if this could be called heartbreak.

Piles of inconsistent information flash before his eyes, like newspaper pieces cut into strips without their headlines to define exactly what he’s looking at. It makes his toes curl in an unfamiliar way, and it isn’t until Boo-Boo nudges him that he blinks back to four walls and a ceiling and a brother that are supposed to keep him grounded.

His home is missing.

Dizzee comes to that conclusion within the span of a few seconds, and instead of brushing away the tiny grasp he’s managed to cling to, he stares at his brother and says, “One day maybe I can have both. Maybe one day I won’t have to choose.”

As if he was given a choice in the first place to co-exist in a world that should’ve belonged to him the minute he was born. Dizzee’s never felt like he’s had to choose between family and love, and he won’t have to make that choice any time soon if he can help it. But he’s faced with this, his room, his brother, and the life he has with music, and that should compliment the body he inhabits.

Instead, it makes him feel isolated.

Dizzee sits up, almost knocking his brother to the floor with what little space his mattress allows him to sleep. Gathering his notebook from the nightstand, he flips through the pages until he locates a blank white space ready to be infused with ink depicting aliens and gods and tales that make the stars burst and flowers bloom.

Quietly, Boo-Boo leaves Dizzee to his work, the pencil flying over paper like it’s got nothing left to lose. With sharp lines and smudged corners, Dizzee lets Rumi take over. If he cannot seize what he wants from this life, then he’ll make damn sure he’ll have everything here without limitations and setbacks from anyone who doesn’t understand.

Dizzee draws gold and silver, and he draws a crown that could rest upon his head.

People cheer: he can hear it over the white noise of a quiet room, his name falling from their lips like he’s saved them from damnation. And Dizzee should be concerned with a mind projecting egos he’s never known to hold, but in the distance, there is something he is after.

A single word falls away from his tongue, rests easy upon his lips, and it’s quiet enough to make the whole room pause.

Dizzee smiles when he sees him, and he’s as beautiful as he remembers.

 _Thor_.

++

“You know,” Marcus says around the curl of a grin, “if you really want to spend time amongst the stars, these garments must come _off_.” Impatient as ever, he claws at Theo’s clothes, eager for these few precious moments they have alone. The house is usually full of scurrying servants, preparing meals and warming bath water. Or there’s his family, rambunctious and restless to announce all they’ve learned from their every day lessons.

But now they’re alone, and he’s waited so long that just the feel of Theo’s hands on his hips leave him breathless. “Do you really think this is a good idea?”

All of his nerves respond with a resounding no, not with Theo’s back pressed against the door, Marcus’ teeth scraping against pale flesh and the juncture where shoulder meets neck. For days, it’d been nothing but longing stares and chaste kisses in ill-lit halls. “Do you want me to stop?”

Marcus receives no adequate answer save for the light touch of fingers against his neck and a pull that brings his mouth against Theo’s. Rough as it may be, Marcus welcomes it, that suffocating need to be close. They’ve shared whispers of conversation to pass the time, quiet communication to bridge the gap of desire and the fringe of sanity; there’s hardly any blame in the lack of it now, especially with teeth biting into his lower lip, dragging the blush from his cheeks to the swell of his lips. “Take me to bed,” he pleads with raspy desire.

As he intends to wrap his legs around Theo’s waist, he finds the boy beneath one step ahead, palms sliding up Marcus’ thighs with every intention to pick him up. And Theo does, Marcus snaking his arms around Theo’s neck, settling against strength he doesn’t quit possess himself. Somewhere, he thinks that maybe that was the appeal, finding pleasure between partners so eager to be in his presence; the enthusiasm, undoubtedly, never wavered, but Marcus turned that in for appreciation and kindness. Marcus gave Theo a chance to treat him like an equal regardless of status, throwing away the symbolism of the crest etched deep into Theo’s skin: a weakling made whole through victories.

It catches in his throat every so often, what it means to see Theo on family grounds not as a family friend but as a guardian. To eat is to survive and survive is to eat, and Marcus’ family had welcomed the boy so long as he trained and fought for their house.

Fought for Marcus.

As Theo walks, his movements don’t jostle him. Marcus suspects this how he wins his matches, quiet as a mouse, always underestimated.

Marcus’ laid against the bed, gently, countered to his earlier eagerness. A lesson, maybe, in patience, just to fuck with him and his desire, but Marcus doesn’t complain when Theo’s hands trail up his robes, untangling him from conspicuous clothing. Inch by inch, dark skin is revealed to the light of day, wickedness within Theo’s eyes as he drinks every inch of Marcus in. They’ve never been touched-starved despite their secrecy within the house, but it’s a chokehold he won’t tolerate.

Reaching for Theo, he pulls him down against his body, heavy but comfortable all the same. Theo settles between his thighs, heat and want caught between two bodies. Marcus sighs with relief, inklings of pleasure rising to the top of his spine, to every nerve ending, the anticipation much longer, much grander that what he’s ever given it credit for.

“Tell me what you want,” comes Theo’s whisper against his ear, lips tethered to the edges of a curve, biting, nipping.

Marcus bites down on his lower lip, a whine escaping the back of his throat. Theo’s not even trying, is the thing, no aimed precision, no detailed path planned to make Marcus fall apart. It’s too much of an addiction he can’t yet give up, not with Theo’s fingers curling against his waist, the tiny thrusts against Marcus’ hips expelling the notion that he’s not caught up within Marcus as Marcus is with him.

“You fucking me would be a good place to start,” he replies, shifting his hips for emphasis, though it does less for Theo than Marcus. His cock brushes against the material of Theo’s clothes, what little he is wearing, and drags a delicious chill through his body. Despite the roughness of the movement, it makes Marcus’ toes curl, finding Theo’s gaze through hazy, needy eyes. It renders him breathless, if only for a moment, caught between every expectation and none at all, the delicacy in which Theo smiles at him, questions and answers all there. Mainly, it’s Theo searching for permission to allow himself Marcus in any capacity he’ll grant him.

In return, Marcus tames down the brink of release he’s found himself on, particularly without so much as a hand on him.

“I’ll get you ready, then.”

But Marcus’ hum echoes throughout the room, shifting under Theo, fingers finding pressure points against Theo’s shoulders. “You won’t have to,” he says, guiding any remaining clothing away from their bodies, leaving them both bar and exposed to the dusk of the sun spilling through the lavish opening that overlooks the city. “S’already done.”

Curious eyes trail across Marcus’ face, lust momentarily forgotten except for the sudden stall of thought. Smirking, Marcus finds Theo’s hand, guiding him along the contours of his body, thighs spreading for accommodation. Theo takes that hint, gentle fingers caressing his cock and then lower and lower until he finds exactly what Marcus wanted him. Quick as lightening, Marcus watches Theo’s expression change, such fleeting emotions, not knowing exactly what to say. Theo’s fingers are warm against his hole, thumb pressed tight against the entrance just before dipping in. It’s not thick enough, but something is better than nothing as Marcus’ thighs contract, spreading wider with incentive.

Marcus’ wet, as Theo has found, worked himself over to the fringe of release before stopping himself from completely falling apart. He’d been tempted so many times to let go, take his cock in his hand, three fingers deep with Theo’s name on the tip of his tongue, but he’d been good, and he’s waited for this exact moment. And whether it’s quick and easy or rough and slow, Marcus will sigh with grace, the laxity of his muscles taking over, as they are soon to do so now.

“You always touch yourself thinking of me?” Theo whispers, lips brushing against the top of Marcus’ knee. His breath is hot against his skin, sends a shiver up his spine at the casualty, as if Theo’s not circling his thumb within Marcus, gently pressing into him further and further before slowly sliding out again.

“Maybe,” he breathes, fingers digging into the blanket beneath him, made worse when Theo nips at his inner thigh. “Okay, _yes_.”

Theo laughs, a low sound from the chest, eyes dilated as the sky gone black. “Did you come?”

With a growl, Marcus shakes his head and answers, “No.” Often, he’s wondered if he’s always been above begging, finding it fruitless changing someone’s mind once it’s made up, but right now, he’s teetering on the outskirts of such a thing, foreign as a new language across the tongue. He whines first, thinks maybe that will stir Theo’s want into action more than appreciation. And it’s not as if Marcus doesn’t enjoy that, the way Theo’s eyes never leave his, and if they do, it’s only a quick flick down, certainty enjoying how effortless it’s become to unravel Marcus’ seams.

Stitch by stitch, Marcus continues to unwind, and the demanded, “Fuck me, Theo,” that escapes his throat isn’t a result of deficiency in maintaining a rational head. But sometimes rational must be damned, and Marcus purely _wants_ , and if that means groveling to get it, he’ll be damned for making prose sound so enticing.

“Yes, my dear,” Theo replies, moving to sit above him. He urges Marcus to turn onto his knees, much more a demand than a request. And while Marcus’ eyes narrow, he smirks in the process, cock bouncing between his legs and balls heavy with heat as he situations himself. It’s made easier by Theo parting his thighs until he’s low on the bed enough for Theo to comfortable rest his chest to Marcus’ back. “Like tasting fine wine…”

Marcus moans when the head of Theo’s cock presses against him, thankful for the encouraged position as his head falls against the bed. Closing his eyes, Marcus fixates on feelings, on being stretched wide and how despite their closeness, the intimacy he’s shared with so few, Theo is tender until he’s seated fully within him. There is no go ahead, and there is no brutal rush; Theo waits until Marcus nods his approval, fingers, once again, curling into the sheets below as Theo begins to move above him.

Theo fucks him, tucking his chin between the crook of Marcus’ neck, pants of curses amidst the edge of his ear. Praises like _you feel so good_ and promises of _ask me and I’ll stay_ overwhelm Marcus, along with the motion of Theo’s hips and the drag of his cock fucking him deep. Marcus bites down, feels the strength of his teeth and the dry of his mouth encased in bliss, overridden by frizzled nerves. “T-Theo… _Theo_ -” he only just manages as meager encouragement, as something for both of their endeavors.

And Marcus should be ashamed of his lack of foresight, but every time, _every time_ these feelings take him by surprise.

With small, languid movements to accompany Theo’s lofty gestures, Marcus succumbs to the growing inevitably of release. The constant drag of Theo’s cock against that sweet spot, the one that makes his toes curl, is everything he wanted, and everything he’d waited for.

So with little effort, Marcus reaches out for Theo’s hand, grappling with little sight and the pain procured through sinking teeth into lips. He encourages Theo to touch, tugging with nimble fingers rather than asking. More so, it’s expectation on Marcus’ part to read him like a goddamn book, unfair but an expectation, and throughout it all, Theo’s never let him down.

Warm fingers caress his skin afterwards, Marcus’ hand falling away from Theo’s as he lets the other man do as he pleases. And as he pleases, he attains, through mere causality and a whispered, “Don’t worry.”

Gently, Theo’s fingers trail against Marcus’ hip, squeezing just so. It briefly reminds Marcus of those times where Theo had left bruises, deep blues in the shape of fingertip marks. Each time, there’d been a dull ache in those spots just above the bone, flesh healing under the skin, leaving Marcus half-disappointed that they weren’t permanent fixtures.

But this time, Theo does not leave them, and Marcus recalls they’ve got more than just the afternoon to themselves. _Next time_ , he thinks, reveling in all the things he’ll ask of Theo and if he’ll follow through. Till then, Theo’s hand sinks between Marcus and the bed, outlining the shape of his hip, through unruly hair Marcus might’ve forgotten to sheer down.

And then… _and then_ , Marcus sucks in a deep breath, a hiss and a whine, high-pitched and so close to breaking into tiny shards of glass. Theo takes him in hand, tight grip and calloused fingers. He squeezes Marcus just right, emphasizing the movement with a thrust. Thinking straight has long escaped Marcus, and it doesn’t help when Theo finally gives his cock a stroke. Dry as it may be at first, Theo uses what leaks from Marcus as slick, sliding a thumb against the slit of his cock. Marcus hasn’t even come yet, but he leaks more nonetheless.

And then Theo’s got him in hand again, less rough and just as stimulating.

“ _Please_ ,” he says with a cry, struggling to push back into Theo or completely fuck his hand. Conflicted, Marcus does his best at both, rutting for and against the pressure that knocks him boneless in one fell swoop.

Marcus comes without warning, without Theo’s words of encouragement, a testament to how pent up he’s been as of late. In the midst of letting go, he turns slightly, seeking Theo’s mouth despite an awkward angle. There’s still so much heat left between them regardless of Marcus’ relief, and as soon as he notices Theo pulling away, he let’s loose a low growl. “Stay,” he demands, pushing far enough away from Theo that he slips out while Marcus rearranges himself, flat on his back and thighs just as wide. He can feel his release against the back of his hip but pays no mind when once again, he offers himself. “Come inside me.”

His muscles feel a little looser, and Marcus’ not about to come again just yet, but Theo finding his way back over Marcus leaves desire prickling his skin.

This time, when Theo enters him, it’s different. Not the physicality of it but the pure emotions that flick across Theo’s features, the flush of his cheeks and eyes smiling at Marcus, brings butterflies to his stomach. Marcus sinks his hands into Theo’s hair, braid a little loose, flyaway hairs unruly and curling at the ends. He’s beautiful to Marcus like this, beautiful when he’s not by his side, and recognition would choke him dead if it weren’t for the million and one times he’s realized it before.

Theo is slower with his thrusts, lower belly dragging against Marcus’ sensitive cock. But no matter how much he breathes through the sensitivity, his smirk remains coy and his fingers brush flesh, and Marcus greets Theo with lips and teeth against the dip of collarbones and carved muscle.

“Leave me messy,” he whispers, planting a kiss against the underside of Theo’s jaw, drawing a stutter and one final grind before Theo is moaning, shaking with his own release that Marcus feels and welcomes without uncertainty.

When Theo pulls away, there’s brief discomfort from the stretch, but his ache is satisfied, if only for a moment, and Marcus gathers Theo in his arms before he allows him to depart for water and something to clean them both up. It’s nothing but frenzied kissing and languid smiles. “You’ve a way with words.”

“I don’t disappoint.”

Theo laughs this time with clarity and without the shadow of quietness that generally beckons their meetings. Marcus’ missed these moments of candidness, quickly brushing away Theo’s hair prone to obscuring his eyes before the moment is lost to nothing but a void. “You never do,” he replies, and this time it’s quiet and a reflection of something much deeper. Theo bows his head, settling into Marcus’ side, and Marcus can almost see those thick brows of his creased with thought rather than worry.

Neither of them moves after that, and Marcus wouldn’t want to anyway. The only sound he hears is those that live far beyond the walls of his home and that of two people breathing in sync. It lulls him into safety, the best kind if he could have a say, each minute of quiet, of simply just _being_.

But like a small hole in the grain, it eventually widens as Marcus’ halfway into his dreams when the interruption comes; like a cut, it stings with its sharpness, dragged cold when Theo quietly tells him, “There’s a fight soon. I’ll be in it.”

“What?” he croaks, satiation obliterated in the link of an eye. Marcus’ hand finds its way onto Theo’s back, splayed against the curve of bone when he sits up. At the loss of body heat, Marcus whines but eventually, like a sleepy cat, he joins Theo.

“I didn’t know how to tell you before.”

As if waiting till now was the perfect opportunity when Marcus’ comfortable and his relaxed.

With his chin resting on the arc of a pale shoulder, Marcus huffs. The matter in his brain feels awfully close to clouds, lids heavy like stone. The fight between sleep and Theo’s confession weighs heavily knowing this a conversation they can save for later. A battle means blood, could mean death, and Marcus doesn’t like the knot that forms in his stomach when he realizes exactly what that means. “You can’t do it.”

“This isn’t something I have a choice in.”

Marcus pulls away, stung by Theo’s words and the weakness in his voice, and rationally he knows that it’s true. Theo never had much of a choice in the matter, either fight or die on the streets without food. It’s sickening, Marcus’ always thought, that entertainment through survival pleased thousands, made them cheer with red faces burnt from the sun and the inflection of death through force of will alone.

“I don’t want you to do it,” he says, though the argument is ineffective in conveying what he feels in his heart. But, it seems, without proper words, Theo understands him without needing to know the certainty of details.

He cups Marcus’ cheek, palm pleasant against his skin despite callouses that linger. There is no fear found in his eyes, only deep affection and a thousand stars Marcus’ wished on every night. “I’ve nothing else to offer them but my life,” Theo whispers, thumb brushing against Marcus’ skin as he tries to rub the worry from his being. “Freedom is only a death away.”

“And if it’s _your_ death?” Marcus asks indignantly, pulling away from Theo once again. He’s always been stubborn, maybe the result of the freedom his parents allow him, the son of a politician and wealth. Or maybe he just takes after his mother, headstrong and decisive in every decision he makes, no time for fault when this life offered them nothing but a few years of healthy living, at most. “What happens then?”

With little thought, Theo shrugs as if they’re talking about the latest gossip or what wine best pairs with their dinner. “Then you will go on,” he replies tightly, little room for argument despite knowing Marcus would do such a thing if it meant protecting the ones he loved. “You will have your life, and your riches, and you will live. You must promise me that.”

But Marcus doesn’t, and he can’t. He won’t give Theo that pitiful promise, washing him off his skin like paint residue, never to be thought of again. It’s appalling, that thought, and Marcus assumes this is Theo’s way of taming emotions that would undoubtedly betray his current state of calm. “I can’t change your mind, can I?” he asks, already knowing the answer doesn’t belong to either of them, just as it doesn’t with any of the gladiator’s. Of course Marcus would choose to love a dangerous man not of his own choosing.

“It’s not my mind that needs changing.”

He’s right, and there’s part of Marcus that would like to voice his thoughts on that, that in this century, it’d take more than a miracle for it to happen. And then he curses himself, and the stars, and any god who is listening, for positioning them in such a peculiar situation – Theo as Marcus’ guard when he walks the streets, and Marcus intolerable at being caged, knowing full well there are plenty who want his family dead. “I don’t want you to die,” he says, voice rough with emotion, yet refusing to abandon the venom of resentment they both know isn’t reserved for Theo.

Though Theo sighs, like he’s tired of Marcus fighting this even though he’s only fighting for Theo’s _life_. “The stars will keep you safe,” he says, grasping Marcus’ chin firmly. They hold gazes, and Marcus swears Theo’s trying to tell him something, a secret, a vice, a memory… _something_ , but he never voices it. Theo leaves Marcus grappling, releasing him even though he never really had control over him to begin with, ever equals under the roof they’ve shared for the past few years. They’ve been cautious, and no one’s found out, but what Marcus would give to take his convictions straight to his father.

“Fuck you,” he ends up saying, watching as Theo settles back onto the bed. It leaves Marcus staring down at him, anger in his brow and more fire in him than when they initially started this discussion.

With a lazy smile, Theo never takes his gaze off Marcus and simply says, “You could.”

“I hate you,” is Marcus’ reply, a deep frown settling across his lips despite Theo’s begging eyes, an act he’s recently picked up in an attempt to melt Marcus’ heart.

And damnit, it works nearly every time.

“You don’t.”

“I don’t,” Marcus agrees with reluctance, letting the tension go all at once, “but you make me want to.” There’s still so much heat under his skin, though, licking at his insides, heart burning with desire for a protest he just won’t win. So instead of letting that char what’s left of the night, Marcus gives in, gracefully falling into Theo’s arms and tucking his face into the crook of his lover’s neck. From this position, he’s warm all over, but there’s a difference now, an inner anguish that quickly unravels. Marcus doesn’t know what it means, and quite frankly, he doesn’t want know, would be much obliged to block the entirety of it out.

But it’s difficult to miss the fiber of dread that weaves in between the creases of his veins and the folds of his skin. And it’s even more insidious to acknowledge the rock solid fear permeating his belly, Theo’s hand resting just on top. Whether that’s irony or sheer fate, Marcus can’t tell, and he isn’t interested in picking it apart.

Instead, he allows Theo to kiss him again, touch him in all the places that make him sigh, and when Marcus sheds tears as Theo fucks him through another orgasm, well, the gentle pressure of Theo wiping them away makes him believe that everything will be alright.

Even if in the end, it isn’t.

++

“I missed you.”

Dizzee has his hand buried in Thor’s hair, gently scratching his scalp and breathing in familiarity like it’s the last time he’ll taste it. Jittery is what he feels, a plethora of desire wracking his body from the long nights he spent alone waiting for this day to come.

And in the beginning, he’d fucked it up by inhaling smoke from a drug that betrayed his body. Dizzee tries not to hate himself for ruining their reunion. In the moment, it’d been too much adrenaline and too much shouting, and the vision he had had before he collapsed struck him with fervor.

_You ever been in love?_

It wasn’t like he hadn’t known. His dreams have always shown him his true self, his heart and where it lies best within the world. And this awakening had been a long time coming. As natural as it’d felt, it knocked him straight out, and Dizzee hadn’t awoken until the early hours of the morning after.

His parents, however, are still giving him the silent treatment, full of disappointed stares and glares and open mouths quickly snapped shut lest they say something to him that they themselves would regret.

Besides, he’d already gotten an earful the moment he’d woken up. He supposes it’s normal for them to carry out their punishment in any way they see fit.

Pushing back the guilt, Dizzee brushes his hands down Thor’s back. The muscles there tense and relax as he shifts between Dizzee’s legs. A solid weight he welcomes, Dizzee curls his fingers under Thor’s chin and brings their lips together in a kiss that could spark fires. Dizzee licks into Thor’s mouth with more than want, a brush of teeth and tongue that shoots pain down his spine. They’ll both have bruised lips in the morning, but neither is complaining, not when Thor’s pressing him into the mattress, and the blunt of Dizzee’s nails scratch his name into the surface of pale skin.

He’d asked the moment he stepped into the apartment, met Thor halfway with need.

“You’re sure?” Thor had asked, like he has every time before, possibly afraid of the moment Dizzee would turn him away.

But those eyes and that smile have captured him, inspired him for the first time since he’d created Rumi. And that feeling, he knows, is not something you play with; it’s not something you test the waters with either. It’s a rippling force of the unknown, maybe cosmic or gods having their way with earth’s puppets.

Dizzee continues to see stars when he’s with Thor, all bright and gleaming against a navy backdrop. It’s how it makes him feel as Thor cups the back of his thigh, bringing it against Dizzee’s chest before driving in deep. They’ve only been together a handful of times, but every occasion is brand new. Thor has a sprinkling of freckles across the span of his back, and a birthmark on his leg he tried covering once until Dizzee painted around it with gold and silver to illuminate that the fact the most imperfect parts have a place to be appreciated.

And even now, with Dizzee on his back, he could swear he’s done this for a millenary.

Thor’s lips trail down his neck, biting, sucking, until Dizzee’s head swims with pleasure. It’s a soft spot, he knows, and Thor knows, too, because it draws out Dizzee’s moans. The heat coiled within his belly swells, and the build up is right there pressing against his chest.

“You’ve g-got-” he tries, but he chokes, eyes squeezed shut and toes curling when Thor drives home.

He’s full, can feel the thick of Thor fucking into him until there’s a gentle caress of his cock. A brush of fingers that send him shivering, Dizzee blinks open hazy, lust-filled eyes where he finds Thor watching him with dilated pupils and purpose.

“I’ve got you,” Thor whispers, just before he’s got Dizzee’s mouth on his again.

And Dizzee cums like that, moaning into Thor’s mouth, breath wracked from his body. Thor joins him in the aftermath of bliss, whispered endearments accompanying the curses rolling off his tongue.

Addiction has never tasted so inviting.

Despite feeling like liquid all the way down to his bones, Dizzee urges Thor to move, incentive to throw the condom away before he can lie beside Dizzee on the mattress. Even with damp skin, he welcomes Thor’s presence, head tucked into the crook of his boyfriend’s shoulder. Lazily, his fingers dance across Thor’s chest, dipping into the lines that form due to lungs regaining the breath they once lost. Just underneath the surface, Dizzee feels the beat of Thor’s heart, a steady thump in between the silence that settles between them.

Dizzee thinks that this is his favorite part.

The kissing and the orgasms leave a sweet taste in his mouth, but the sated feeling that falls after their affairs never fails to bring him peace and safety. Maybe it’s the rush of emotions, the chemicals within his DNA reacting to pleasantries and affection. It makes him feel whole, and Dizzee wonders if Thor feels like his whole body has been set alight, too.

“Will there ever come a day where we’ll grow bored?” he asks, almost certain of the answer but terrified that he’d been misguided.

Thor’s arm, the one wrapped tightly around his waist, squeezes him a little tighter. “Do you think we’ll ever get it wrong?”

Dizzee thinks no, but answers, “I feel like I’m caught between a thousand worlds when I’m with you,” instead, a collision course he hadn’t prepared for. The words tumble and so do his thoughts, like a hiccup in his throat, Dizzee swears he’s been here a million times over. “How can that be?”

Thor’s silence doesn’t necessarily unsettle Dizzee, but it does call into question whether he’s finally stumped the boy beneath him. It’s not until he feels the soft brush of fingers against his back that the answer occurs to him. Thor had only been waiting for him to figure it out. “Do I test fate by inquiring the purpose of the star’s aligning?”

“I bet if you ask,” Thor whispers, shifting his placement until he’s on his side, staring at Dizzee through the blue haze that lights up the room, “they’d answer you back.”

It’d be a mission for Rumi, Dizzee thinks. He’s always been a friend to the stars, and he figures that maybe they understand one another more than Dizzee ever could. But even testing that theory proves to be a lost cause, at least for the time being, until Dizzee is ready to take his chances and risk losing everything. Momentarily, he wonders when he fell away from his risk versus reward mentality. And then he thinks that maybe he still has it somewhere deep down, his continuing affair with bombing proving that point.

When it comes to Thor, however, all bets are completely off.

Until then, Dizzee grows restless after some time. His skin eventually grows clammy, and while he should’ve already felt the affects of post-coital sleepiness set in, it’s rather left him wide awake in a studio apartment that speaks to his soul.

Sitting up, Thor’s arms fall away from him, but their legs are still pressed together. “Do you mind if I let Rumi speak?”

The solid weight of Thor’s hand is there at his back, fingers spread in different directions but warm nonetheless. Dizzee would lean into it and let his eyes fall closed if it weren’t for other pressing matters. “To your heart’s content,” Thor murmurs, and before he’s even finished, Dizzee is off the mattress. He makes a beeline for the paint cans, lined up in an unorganized matter that speaks to Dizzee. Each color calls out to him, ready to be used.

Black is his first color of choice, to set an outline and begin his creation.

Thor casually points to a wall, already covered in paper like he knew that Dizzee might pop into his flat one day and fill the walls to the brim with art. Dizzee gives him a wide smile that lingers a second longer than might’ve been necessary before he’s aiming the can of paint at a blank sheet of canvas.

By the time he’s finished with it tonight, there won’t be a spot left uncovered.

In the midst of his performance, he and Thor dress themselves in leftover clothes Thor had around for special painting sessions that left marks and unclean cloth. He lets Dizzee paint, and sometimes he joins him, but mainly Thor just watches as Rumi takes form and an amazing story unfold.

Eventually, Thor pulls out a record, a backdrop of music to accompany the creativity that flows through them both. Dizzee already smells the fumes of the paint cans, but it brings familiarity rather than worry. What he’s doing now isn’t for anyone else to see, no trains or brick walls people will pass by and wonder who the son of a bitch is who’d let loose under the night sky.

Tonight is for him, and tonight is for Thor, and somewhere in the midst of that is purposeful conversation and Thor joining him on his quest for absolution.

“And I want you to paint, but I don’t want you to die,” Dizzee remembers Thor arguing, voice elevated to a degree that is uncommon for him. His anger had not been towards Dizzee; he knows this, but it was real, and it was there mixed with grief, and Dizzee hadn’t been able to meet him halfway because Rumi deserved to be free. His art deserved more than the walls the Bronx had to offer him.

But it was his, and the threat of white politicians and enraged dogs weren’t going to be the thing that stopped him from living.

Later, Thor will repeat his concerns when Dizzee is still adrift within his world, the itch to bring Rumi to life never ceasing until he lets his green friend roam. Thor’s worries will not be lost on him, however, and he understands the worry that threads Thor’s heart with his, or at least he thinks he does. All the same, he won’t lose another part of himself the way he lost love for a brief extent of time. Dizzee is all for waiting as long as he needs for the reward, but if he gets a choice in the matter, he’ll leave it up to fate to decide his future.

For now, he paints Thor with colors of the rainbow, makes a mess and then some. He feels alight with freedom and every brush stroke is a new sound of music to his ears.

“Do you ever want to see the world?” he asks at some point in between painting Rumi’s body and adding the top hat to his newly formed tail.

From the distance, Dizzee hears Thor gives pause, the brush halted at the end of a line until it picks back up again. Glancing at Thor, with paint stains and the confirmation that he and Dizzee are standing within the same four walls, he notices the tension in his boyfriend’s arm, how Thor’s jaw tightens for a flicker of a second before it’s whisked away like it didn’t exist at all. “What if I told you I already have?”

Is it disappointment that leaks within Dizzee’s chest - the reminder that he’s the only new one here? These walls could tell stories, he’s sure of it. The only thing Dizzee would have to do is ask. “I’d like to see it with you,” he says instead, negating the doubt from his being. It feels strange to him because Dizzee’s always been everything if not himself, and there’d never been any room for argument.

But he knows Thor’s been here longer, and Dizzee wonders if he had to be ashamed of anything, would it be this? Should it be this? How can an alien know himself inside and out, yet still maintain a sequestered identity untethered?

Eventually, he comes to a conclusion without knowing whether it’s right or wrong. There’s always more to the story than meets the eye, and Dizzee is a living example of that. Prying goes against his style, and he won’t do that to Thor, and he won’t show his moment of weakness in the face of a want he had been more than tempted to ask. He wants to see the world and then some, and he wants to do it with Thor if he’ll have him.

“I’d like that, too.”

For now, Dizzee resists any further questions, removes previous incidents where he’s become acutely aware that Thor is holding something back from him. Some secrets aren’t meant for all ears, but Thor always looks at a loss for words when Dizzee brings up very pointed ideas that pertain to concepts that rattle his bones. Whether it’s a lie or an omission of truth, Dizzee will not worry.

Because either way, Dizzee will be here when Thor’s ready.

++

Nightmares are only supposed to be nightmares, but for the unlucky souls who dream premonitions, they’re succumbed to horrible fates. And somewhere deep inside that numbed-out heart, Marcus wonders if he could’ve tried harder, if he could’ve said something to put an end to the nonsense of what he shouldn’t have witnessed today, so that maybe he wouldn’t be the only one standing in his room with nothing but darkness to greet him.

An eerie chill crawls up his spine then, like a snake ready for a venomous bite. Somehow it feels like his body has been left for dust, though he knows that’s not true. Marcus had been the fortunate one to survive the bite of death, unscathed yet shattered all the same. Theo, on the other hand, hadn’t been so lucky.

Blood is warm until it’s not, leaking from veins and wounds too far gone.

Marcus blinks, relegated to the strapping throws of unfettered emotions, dancing around his body like auras he can’t fully see. As soon as he takes a step further in the room, the scrape of metal behind his feet a sickening reminder of the day’s events, Marcus realizes he’s not the same person who woke up this morning after a night full of passion; he will never be that person again. The weight of the sword hangs heavy in his hands, a dead load he wishes he could throw to the wind, set free of its flaws and failure to protect as it was designed to do.

But his fingers curl around the sheath, hoping against hope that maybe the blade will pierce through metal and flesh as it had its opponent earlier. Instead, Marcus must succumb to the reality that it’s the only thing he has left of Theo, no matter how much he wishes to banish, to melt the weapon from the heat of his hatred.

It wasn’t supposed to fail. It certainly wasn’t supposed to be Theo’s downfall.

Logic will not tame him now, no matter the rational aspect of Theo’s weaknesses or the fact that he’d been outsmarted in a second’s time. Marcus refuses to see it as such, forgoes empty thoughts that will lead to the replay of a night he’d rip out of history if he had the power to do so.

Reluctantly, Marcus walks further into the room, throws the sword onto the bed while ignoring the way it sinks into the material. His first destination is the wine he keeps hidden behind the plants in the corner of the room, knowing full well his parents have probably found it but have said nothing to dissuade him from drink. While he’s kept it here, it’s never particularly come in handy unless he’d been entertaining company, but now, he supposes, its proper use will finally be put to the test, no more guessing games as to why elders delve into drunkenness; the liquid proves useful in its ability to wash away the intrusive thoughts that slither their way into the mind’s eye. Marcus had always been fortunate enough not to battle with demons, gone years without nightmares full of things that could eat him alive, and now here he is, paying for someone else’s sins. What’s worse is that he’ll be doing it for the rest of his life.

Twisting off the cap, he takes the first swig. It’s warm as it slides down his throat and into his belly, but it’s not enough to forget; so Marcus drinks half the bottle before managing to stumble over to the bed, left alone for the night because of the festivities, a party held in congratulations and payment for a job well done.

For a fight well done.

For a murder well done.

Marcus fights the burn of tears, but he can’t escape a heavy heart, half drunk on wine and emotions because he doesn’t want to think, doesn’t want to process the fact that Theo couldn’t be spared with Marcus’ wishful thinking and prose he’d given to the stars. This is how things were, how they’d been for ages now, life and death paraded around like a bowl of fruit offered to those who could afford the entertainment.

All Theo wanted to do was survive. Eat and breathe and live as any human need goes, and Marcus couldn’t save him because he had no power, unlike his father, and Theo had nothing but the clothes on his back and the will to fight in the arena for that basic survival. Marcus had tried to help him as much as he could, but trying is close to nothing, not with Theo’s name tarnished by virtue of scandal through family, a fallen angel with its wings plucked right from the base of its back.

Marcus’ hands are not stained with any blood, too soft with their lack of calluses, but he thinks that ought to change, and Theo’s lessons shouldn’t go to waste.

Lying down, Marcus feels his head swim and vision cross, and he knows he should stop drinking while he’s ahead. Tomorrow morning will be hell, but he snorts; it’s nothing in comparison to the sword gnawing through flesh and bone, twisted directly through a beating heart until it simply wasn’t anymore. Seeing death is a different experience when it comes to the ones you love.

The bed is cold, the breeze of the night setting the chill in the air. He wiggles his toes, curls his fingers around the bottle and takes another drink just to satisfy the ache that will never fully go away. He’d expected the bed to remain warm like the wine on his lips, a manifestation of their body heat, their passion threaded into a safe place that Marcus never guessed would’ve been destroyed. Now, lying here, all he feels is the frigid cold of an unmarked grave, the pit of blackness he can’t quite see out of.

On this night, he sleeps with Theo’s sword at his feet, and other nights, he hides it away from himself in fear of weakness enabling him to succumb to cruel fates.

And sometimes on lonely nights, Marcus will remove the sword from its sheath and spend hours til morn running his fingers over the detailed length of the blade. Though whether or not he feels blood drip from wounds when he accidentally nicks himself isn’t a concern as much as the tears he sheds as he grieves for a soul he unfortunately lost.

Marcus does not have a body to bury, but what he does have is a strong grip on a weapon he will one day learn how to use.

++

Sometimes when Dizzee dreams, he lives in them like they’re real, like he’s living a lie in this world. Telling the difference between a familiar life and the one his brain conjures serves as a mystery until the light of the sun warns him of his foolishness.

But waking up in the morning brings a slew of questions to mind because Dizzee swears that he hadn’t been dreaming at all. Not when he’s heard his name spoken clear as day and not when lingering touches feel phantom like they’re on the brink of tangibility.

It’s been happening more frequently, the burst of color behind his eyelids. He closes his eyes for too long, and he sees himself in unfamiliar attire. His body is still lanky, full of limbs and sharp lines, but there’s softness about him he can’t quite explain.

The most chilling part is his eyes. It’s always the eyes, and he figures there’s some truth to the belief that they’re the windows to the soul. As deep brown as they are, there are glimmers of light that reflect within them, hidden scenes of a movie he starred in but can’t quite grasp when he’d taken the stage. It confuses him, and it’s probably why he’s woken up groggy every morning for most of his life, a night owl at best.

But the fact that he doesn’t have answers is what stirs the pot. Dizzee yearns to know; he only wants to look at his reflection and understand what he sees. Feeling this lost is new for him, and it makes him uncomfortable.

“Yo, Dizz!”

He blinks and quickly moves, avoiding a flying record aimed straight at his face. It bounces off the back of the couch before landing against his back.

Turning, Dizzee throws his hands up, doesn’t even have to ask them what the fuck is wrong with them all to know they’re in the middle of an argument.

“Ain’t playin’ that shit here, man,” Shaolin says, hands buried deep in the plethora of records he’s managed to acquire.

“Least it ain’t Dizzee’s kind of weird,” Ra-Ra argues.

After sending his brother the evil eye, Dizzee grabs the record and hands it to Boo-Boo who’s holding out his hand with apologies written across his features. “You’d be so lucky to experience eccentricity at its finest.”

“Eccentric is you sittin’ on that couch, starin’ off into space like you ain’t got practice.”

And so maybe he got caught up a bit within himself; Shaolin isn’t wrong. It’s not uncommon for Dizzee to space out when nothing important is going on. Clearly, nothing important is actually going on because if they’re at each other’s throat already, then no progress is being made.

Besides, Zeke looks like he’s stuck on a verse by the way he’s rubbing his eyes and yawning.

“What were you thinkin’ about anyway, Dizz. Your head is in the clouds again.”

Someone snorts, maybe Zeke or Shaolin and then, “When is his head not in the clouds. Y’all actin’ like this is somethin’ new.”

Dizzee opens his mouth to finally speak up for himself, but then there’s this line that’s said, this line that makes him pause, makes him bite the inside of his cheek.

“Probably that pretty white boy he keeps talkin’ to.”

Dizzee’s not afraid of many things. Some things but not everything. But this is different because Boo-Boo is playing around; he knows this; they all know this. Yet Dizzee feels that familiar tingle at the back of his neck, like when Thor taps his fingers against his bare skin when he’s painting, and he’s trying to get Dizzee’s attention. There’s a rush of heat, but not in excitement and not in arousal. Suddenly, he feels suffocated.

Bringing Thor up before today hadn’t exactly happened because he initiated it. The other boys knew _of_ him because he’d been there first when Dizzee had collapsed at the club. Shaolin’s the only other soul who knows where he stands with that _pretty white boy_ , and thus far, the other man had kept his word and hadn’t said anything that would make Dizzee distrust him.

But the joke is in their space, in their hideout at the temple, and Dizzee doesn’t want to lie, but he also doesn’t want to face the truth of what his relationship with Thor is yet. He’s not ashamed, never that, but he knows the consequences if he’s not careful. Trust is important, and while Shaolin has shown him that, and Dizzee should be able to trust his brothers, there’s always, always that inkling of fear that maybe it’ll be them that won’t understand.

Dizzee doesn’t want to lose his family. He doesn’t want to lose Thor either.

“What white boy?” Zeke asks, setting aside the notepad he’d had before him. It seems he could use a break from writing individual verses for them all, a daunting task if it’d been left up to the rest of them to fulfill.

“The one from the club,” Ra-Ra answers like they hadn’t been performing in various places all across the Bronx. Every one of them had been turned into makeshift dance parties, but Ra simple nods his head at Dizzee as if that’s a dead giveaway.

Zeke’s eyes widen. “Didn’t know you were talkin’ to him, man. Thought it was just some random who found you.”

There’s rambunctious laughter that crowds the room, straight from Boo-Boo who’s trying his best to stifle the sounds coming from his mouth. “Dizzee’s been bombing with him for ages now. Always scribblin’ pictures in his book and shit.”

At this point, out of the corner of his eye, Dizzee sees that Shaolin has stopped rifling through the records, fingers curled around the edge of the baskets they sit in. He’s staring at Dizzee knowingly, a silent question of whether he should intervene or not by drawing everyone’s attention away from him and onto other pressing matters.

The thing is, Dizzee’s at a crossroads because certainly, this isn’t the time or place to be contemplating outing himself to everyone, not when they’ve got a gig in a few days, and Zeke needs to concentrate, and hell, they all need to be concentrating on that. But Dizzee also hates lying, and a meager part of him wonders if maybe he could let it all out and finally be free here, too.

Although, before Dizzee figures out a silent way to convey his thoughts to Shaolin, Ra-Ra’s speaking up, words slicing through the jesting nature that employs them all.

“Should you be hangin’ with him?” he asks, more contemplative than demeaning. “Seems the flamboyant type; you know, a little extra like Dizzee.”

A red, hot burn grabs ahold of him, and Dizzee understands that his brother means well, but he can’t let something like this go - no matter what the rational side of his brain is telling him to do and no matter what Shaolin is advising him to do with the sharp shake of his head- “His name is Thor,” Dizzee spits out without thinking, body coiled enough to give him away. It’s not exactly what he was aiming for; cool, calm, and collected has always come natural to him, but this isn’t something he can laugh off like it’s nothing. More than likely, he’d feel ashamed of himself afterwards if he was to do so, and Dizzee’s already had enough of that.

But also, all he can think is fuck, fuck, and fuck.

“Oh,” Zeke says softly from the corner of the room, still perched on his chair. He’s got this far-off look in his eye, processing this newest piece of information by cataloging it for later use and then, “Shit, you serious, Dizz?”

Dizzee swallows hard, quickly glancing at Zeke and then at Shaolin like maybe he’d be able to save him after all. Dizzee welcomes the curses swimming around in his mind, directed at himself for being emboldened at the most impromptu time. With no way out other than to face the music, he’s stuck in the middle of the room: his brothers across from him, Zeke on one side, and Shao on the other, and suddenly, Dizzee feels reasonably sick to his stomach.

Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, Shaolin looks completely apologetic.

Despite that, everyone moves in a little closer, almost as if they’re purposefully trying to cage him in. Instead of sitting on the edge of the couch like he had been, Dizzee sits back with his hands on his knees, his bag to the right of him, and he wonders if maybe he’d have time to snatch it and make a quick exit.

With no such luck, from a distance, and mainly because Dizzee isn’t paying any attention with his ears full of the sound of blood rushing to his head, the quietest voice breaks his trepidation. Sucking in a breath, Dizzee turns sharp, brown eyes onto his youngest brother as it finally clicks into place.

“You gotta not apologize for being an alien,” Boo-Boo whispers. With his arms crossed and eyes initially glued to the floor, ever so slowly his vision roams until soft, wondering eyes fall upon Dizzee.

It’s like a spell of sorts, the moment where dawn has broken and the beauty of what was there has been lifted. That’s what this moment feels like, like Dizzee’s aura has been shattered, and he’s staring into the face of someone who has all the cards in their hands.

He wants to apologize, and he also wants to show off who he truly is, but Dizzee’s temporarily stuck in limbo until Shaolin breaks the spell that seems to have consumed them all.

“Leave him alone,” Shaolin says as an attempt to give Dizzee some space by pushing them all away.

While appreciative, Dizzee knows it won’t do much good, especially as Zeke whirls around on Shaolin and simple declares, “Hold up, you _knew_?”

Shaolin nonchalantly gives a shrug, unapologetic and sending Dizzee a small smile from behind the box of records that hides half of his being. “Ain’t my story to tell.”

All at once, there are voices talking over one another, questions and confusion all mixed into one. It sort of sounds like Dizzee’s thoughts, only spoken out loud and in various tones that infer the headache beginning to worm its way behind his eyes. “This ain’t how it was supposed to go,” he groans, resting in head on the couch behind him.

Ra-Ra’s the first to break away from the chatter, joining Dizzee on the sofa and hesitating to say anything to him. Today’s been a disaster, and Dizzee knows that his brother doesn’t want to make things worse. So, in an effort to be as honest as he can, Dizzee sits up and expectantly looks at his sibling.

“Didn’t know it was like that,” he offers, and then he winces, but Dizzee missed the accusatory tone Ra-Ra thinks he bolstered.

By now everyone’s gone quiet, Dizzee glancing at them all to gage their concern, or anger, or elation. He can’t read them as clearly as he would like, but after he licks his lips, he gives it to them plainly. “I didn’t either,” he admits because that’s the truth. Dizzee had never thought about the meaning of relationships and people and the boundaries that were placed upon them; at least, not in this way. He understood, of course, that the color of his skin held limits in areas he knew he could succeed in, and he knew the lines that little money did not cross. But the edges of this, this undefined gamut he’d stumbled across shattered expectations all across the board.

Dizzee still doesn’t know where he stands, but what he knows is that he might be in love with Thor, and that’s one thing he won’t apologize for.

“So, y’all are-” Ra-Ra initiates, cutting himself off before he can finish his thought.

“For awhile now,” Dizzee replies. He can see Shaolin from the corner of his eye, biting his lip and growing ever so slightly distressed. Dizzee suspects he’s in a strange position, the first to know about him and Thor, and he’s afraid there might be blame laid upon him for finding out this secret accidentally before people Dizzee has known the longest.

“A few weeks then?” Ra-Ra continues, and he thinks back to that night his brother had seen Thor’s work on the train. Like a signal in the sky, it had called out to Dizzee, leaving him with pride and excitement that both he and Thor were in this together.

“Months,” he corrects, watching as three sets of eyes grow wide.

“Shit, Dizz,” Zeke interjects, exasperated and bewildered that one of their own had a life that extended far beyond the Get Down Brothers and then some. “You’ve kept it up that long?”

Dizzee hears the concern in his friend’s voice, and while he appreciates it, he also can’t help the growing irritation that threatens to prickle his skin. “I wasn’t trying to keep it from you to hurt you,” he says firmly, knowing he needs the notion that he owed them anything put behind them once and for all. Sure, Dizzee might feel shame in not having enough trust, but he’d also been in the process of learning to trust _himself_. Having the world flipped upside down on you because of a single party, because of a single kiss wasn’t on Dizzee’s agenda, no red marks in his calendar to remind him that on this here day, his life would change. “Y’all already starin’ at me like I’m Cerberus anyway.”

“I ain’t gonna pretend like I know who that is,” Boo-Boo begins this time. “But surprisingly, Zeke doesn’t always have a way with words.” In the midst of his sentence, he throws Zeke a callous look he doesn’t entirely mean, and then he’s looking at Dizzee the way he does when he’s full of sincerity, and he wants to be completely honest. “And I think what he’s _tryin’_ to say, Dizz, is that you coulda told us. I get why you didn’t cuz it ain’t easy, is it? But we ain’t gonna like, give ya shit for it or whatever.”

Dizzee supposes that’s the truth, but a part of him thinks this is too _easy_ , that this is supposed to be significantly more difficult. Though if he could, he’d smack himself for thinking that rather than be grateful for what his family is trying to get across to him. Still, he’ll worry, and for now he carries on with, “You know y’all can’t tell nobo-” and then he’s cut off, a rush of air leaving his lungs as Ra-Ra tackles him for a hug.

“For someone who’s supposed to know a lot of things, you sure as shit know nothin’.”

While tense at first, Dizzee sags into his brother’s arms. He already feels the tired in his bones and in his mind despite the youth in his age, and he knows this is it. This is the best it’ll ever get and how incredibly _lucky_ he is to have a band of brothers that seek his wellbeing instead of having intentions to destroy it.

Of course, tonight doesn’t make everything okay. In fact, it’ll probably complicate a whole lot, and he’ll have to tell Thor that he’s no longer a secret, but relief is the first thing Dizzee experiences as the unknown has shifted to the known.

It won’t be an excuse to be negligent, far from it, but as one door closes, another one always opens.

++

Marcus enters the shop on the corner of a busy street at half past two, hoping to get a glimpse at the decoration of pastries and a particular boy who’d caught his fancy several months prior. Surprisingly, the room isn’t as crowded as he thought it would be, the few customers inside sitting at the small round tables across from the register enjoying what little time they have of the afternoon. The air smells sweet, like cake and fresh sugar powder, dough rising with hints of chocolate swirls at the center. It’s not often Marcus’ teeth ache for baked goods, but he figures the longer he pays the bakery a visit, the one he’d accidentally stumbled upon during an afternoon walk, his appetite for sugar will surely increase.

Though, some might argue that that’s already the case, and Marcus will continue to argue that he can’t help _whom_ he’s drawn to.

“You came to see me again,” a voice breaks through Marcus’ thoughts, shaking him away from the haze of his family insisting he spill the treasure he’d found in the form of carbs and excessive dairy. They already know he roams; what parent wouldn’t worry? But Marcus’ set on having one piece of the world for himself until he feels otherwise.

Marcus smiles brightly in return, finding a boy on the other side of the display. He takes his chances, slipping past the register to greet Theo, whose hands are buried deep in dough. Under quick observation, Marcus notes the flour across Theo’s cheek, sprinkled throughout his hair as if it took him by surprise in a fight Marcus knew they’d both lose. “You say that every time I see you,” he says, but he can’t be mad about it; Theo’s words always have a way about them that sweeps Marcus off his feet, curling around his heart like they’ll permanently stay the longer he cherishes them. “You think I’ll disappear.”

A gentle laugh escapes Theo’s throat, deep and acquainted with Marcus’ absurdity. The brightness in his eyes give him away without Marcus having to prod him for a response, and he knows that if he could spend every waking moment here, he would. The serenity of the room, the fresh smells of baked bread and sweet desserts make him feel like home. And with that though, Marcus understands he hadn’t reflected a lie, what with the duties he has to attend to back at the palace; he can’t always make the time to meet Theo as much as he would like. If he could make a case for it, he would; they’re in sync with one another in ways that Marcus can’t quite explain, like happy memories and comfort etched into walls. The moment Marcus had walked into the shop, it’d felt familiar but not, and Marcus can’t imagine how he’d gone so long without a person like Theo in his life, welcoming, accommodating, and completely clueless to the status he holds over the surrounding lands.

For now, Marcus concentrates on the slowness of the shop, and it figures Theo’s gone ahead and attempted to prepare another batch of items to bake. Theo’s explained it to him on multiple occasions that the rush hours differ here than they do for normal eateries. So, Marcus quietly wonders what it’ll be this time, what Theo will bake, and if he’ll decorate it with frosting, maybe sprinkles, or will it be pure sugar? Whatever it is, it’ll be his favorite part of the process, the heat of the fire from the oven in the back serving as a reminder that it’s much more than time and heat that goes into the food on the menu. Theo, along with the owners of the bakery, go out of their way to make their treats an experience full of overwhelming tastes and pieces so aesthetically pleasing, it almost kills Marcus’ inner artist to destroy a piece of art in the name of hunger.

“Maybe I’ve good reason,” Theo eventually replies, pulling Marcus back into the present.

“Other than to get on my nerves?” he says with a smile, because Theo’s like that, all hopeful eyes and a pleading nature. It twists something in Marcus’ gut every time he leaves, the knowledge that someone enjoys his company wholeheartedly that they miss his presence as soon as he’s gone.

Theo throws him a playful glance, quickly pinching flour between two fingers before throwing it at Marcus. It rains a solid white, different and similar to snow in the middle of winter. True to its nature, it lands on the floor, but mostly it lands on Marcus, trying as he might to duck away with a laugh. “I’d declare war if you weren’t working,” Marcus reveals, lightly nudging Theo with his shoulder.

And this part is what Marcus cherishes above all else, the tranquil moments where he gets to be normal outside of pressing matters and dull books he’s supposed to be studying. Marcus’ had plenty of friends growing up but never ones like this, never ones he’d like to hold hands with and kiss, and certainly never anyone who’d grown up without a title to their name.

“You missed the morning rush,” Theo says when Marcus’ finished sweeping flour off of his coat. Theo’s rounding out the dough now, beginning the stages of pulling it apart and rolling it between the palms of his hands; they come out as perfectly shaped balls, no dents or oddly crooked dough. There’s a tray off to the side where Theo sticks them, ready to be baked and sold within the hour. “Saved you some if you want them.” He gestures to another section of the counter that isn’t occupied by ingredients, a white box sitting by its lonesome.

Marcus glances back at Theo, to the box, and back to Theo again before the heat in his cheeks from a creeping blush forces him to move.

When Marcus reaches the box, he notes of its smoothness, a shiny material that squeaks when he opens the lid. Inside, he finds an assortment of treats, from donuts to bear claws to sugar twists. There’s even a slice of cake topped with strawberries dipped in chocolate, and Marcus’ very well tempted to take a bite out of each, savoring the flavor and emotion he’s come to associate with good food. “You didn’t have to,” he says quietly, feels like he could practically bury his face into the box as an escape for the warmth he feels liquefying his body. It’s much more than embarrassment as much as it’s appreciation that he discerns, the fact that Theo thought of him so early in the morning, remembering Marcus’ favorites over a random assortment that he’d end up passing off to his siblings the moment he got home.

“I wanted to.”

In an attempt to stop the bliss of a smile that breaks across his face, Marcus finds the bud of his thumbnail between his teeth. It obscures his face as much it can, but he knows he’s not subtle, and the loss of words is an even greater giveaway than he imagined.

Quickly, Marcus closes the box, knowing that if he stands there much longer he’ll attempt to take a bite, further distracting himself from Theo’s kindness and the real reason he’d come by the bakery. While it should astonish him how easily he’s swept up in pretty sentiments, it’s the most intoxicating thing he’s ever felt. Marcus’ never experienced the sensation of butterflies dancing within his tummy, and he’s never felt nervous, especially around other people. But this is new, whatever this is, and it’s exciting, and he’s about to flip all of it on its head if he’s not careful.

Shuffling across the room, Marcus brushes up against Theo who’s finished with the dough now. He’s got a rag in his hand, wiping away the flour on the counter, cleaning up the mess instead of saving it for after hours. “Thank you,” Marcus says amidst this, faintly and aware of the fragility unspoken between them. “I actually came here to ask you something.”

Theo pauses, brows furrowing in confusion. The time they’ve spent together hasn’t been all talk, Marcus helping Theo around the shop if he’s ever needed it, greeting customers with a lovely smile. Sometimes they’ve asked him what he’d recommend, all of them laughing when he’d reply with, “Everything.” The bakery isn’t necessarily a second home, but Marcus’ somehow managed to squeeze himself into the tranquility of mundane life, fascinated by every aspect it has to offer. Whether it’s through the amount of people watching he’s privy to, or the way Theo moves with ease around Marcus, never pausing to tell him he’s in the way, it humbles him so.

“Oh?” Theo notes, voice lilting in a way that suggests he’s bracing for bad news.

And Marcus doesn’t know if he should be terrified of that, of knowing that someone appreciates him wholeheartedly, cares enough about him and his words, who’s listened to him ramble about nonsense. Marcus doesn’t like the notion of holding someone’s emotions in the palm of his hand, like a god playing with its toys. “Don’t look so terrified,” he reassures, because in the end, Marcus’ not sure he himself could ever give Theo bad news. “There’s this um-”

The bottom of his lip between his teeth serves as a better pastime than working up the courage to explain, but Marcus knows he’s already begun and backing out now would only make him the fool. Which, in all honesty, Marcus figures no matter what he does, there’s still a chance for him to look an idiot. There’s no way of knowing if Theo’s actually going to say yes. In fact, Marcus, quite frankly, realizes that he hadn’t thought this through, not in all the ways he should’ve. Maybe it’s better to be straightforward, he thinks, foot-in-mouth and be done with it, suffering the consequences for doing things without a plan in place.

Marcus reaches for his back pocket instead, pulling out a rectangular card, very much like a letter. It’s properly sealed, wax and all, with the crest of the ruling family etched into the hardened gold. He flips it over, revealing Theo’s name scrawled out in beautiful cursive full of gold and black flecks the palace had decided would be this year’s theme.

“There’s a ball at the palace,” he explains, unsure of whether Theo knows what the meaning of the card exemplifies. To most, it’s nothing special, and it isn’t a thing coveted amongst the townspeople. But Marcus knows others who would trade for it, sink low enough for an invite just to stir up trouble. “I want you to come.”

Hesitantly, Theo takes it from Marcus, the white of the paper a dull contrast to the yellow undertone in his skin. He looks just as nervous as Marcus, shaky hands and hesitation bridging lines across his brow. It’s difficult to tell whether he’s nervous for the same reasons as Marcus, or if he’s just overwhelmed by the fact that he’s received a direct invite to the palace in a moment’s notice. “But this is- How’d you get this?”

Marcus would describe awe in the wake of Theo’s inquiry, the way the man before him progresses through emotions, bewildered, amused, scared like maybe Marcus’ fucking with him. But he’s not; the invitation is the real deal, and Marcus had personally been there when they’d written them. The special request for a guest hadn’t gone unnoticed by his mother, but he promised to explain when the time was right. He needed an absolute yes first before he’d give himself away, give Theo away so easily, and he hopes that maybe his efforts will not go in vain.

But Marcus hesitates to answer Theo’s question because the fact of the matter is he’s not been entirely forthcoming with information about his life. He hadn’t even dropped hints as to his place, his status, and for good reason. In the beginning, Marcus hadn’t given a second thought to ever coming around this part of town again, but once he’d found Theo and how much of a gentle giant he assumed to epitomize, Marcus had been hooked from there on out. No regrets and completely selfish, Marcus wanted this moment, this life, all to himself.

“I thought maybe you’d like to join me?” he asks instead, hesitantly. He’s avoiding the real answers to questions of how and why and when and where and who because ultimately, Marcus knows the moment he remarks, the mirage he’d created for himself could very well fade away like fog after an early morning, dissipating as soon as the sun commands it. Marcus only wanted a taste of freedom, only wanted to share the street with the people that made his life possible to begin with. “My family- some of them work in the palace.”

Theo doesn’t seem reluctant to accept the answer, too busy running his fingers over the embossment of his name. The silence between them, though, speaks wonders, and Marcus’ heard of that reaction where humans feel the need to fill the silence so they ramble about fuck-all just to avoid any awkwardness. And maybe that’ll be him, with the way his tongue feels heavy in his mouth and the sinking feeling of rejection residing in his stomach. Maybe he’d read their situation wrong, and maybe he’d been an idiot for wanting something more between them even if he hadn’t outright asked for it.

And now he thinks maybe he shouldn’t’ve said anything at all because with rejection comes the dissolution of friendship, and that had been something Marcus cherished. “You don’t-”

“Are you sure you want me to come?” Theo suddenly asks, cutting Marcus off with a sheepish smile as an apology. The invite remains unopened, though it seems Theo is itching to pull away the seal to read the decadent letter the palace believed it needed. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been before.”

Marcus suspected that. He thinks he would’ve remembered someone like Theo at a stuffy evening event the likes of which no other kingdom throws. Whether it’s done because it’s tradition or out of respectability, Marcus’ never been able to accurately figure that out, but generally speaking, it’s the last thing on his mind anyway. Luckily he’s always been able to nab the champagne, find an empty room, and drink the night away.

This time, however, he wanted it to be different. Well, somewhat different. Maybe still the drunken bit, but at least companionship would remove the bitter reality of lonely intemperance.

Anyway, Marcus lightly taps his fingers against the counter, the deep sound of metal reverberating in the wake of what he’s discovered. Hope, fortunately or unfortunately, leaps into his heart, quite aware that he’s still on a track to receive Theo’s final verdict. But until then, Marcus takes a step closer to Theo, testing his boundaries, which in turn leads to Theo’s full attention. “I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t,” he says quietly.

Through the sincerity of Marcus’ words or the light within his eyes, Theo eventually figures it out, that Marcus’ not lying, and he’s not asking Theo out of pity because of the differences in their stature. Theo visibly swallows down the trepidation, quickly opening the envelope in front of Marcus, and he doesn’t read the entirety of it like Marcus expects him to. Instead, his eyes gloss over the fine print, probably recognizing the sigil as further proof that what he holds in his hands is the chance of a lifetime and a key to opportunities if he plays his cards just right.

But what Marcus finds isn’t a proclamation of excitement or even a swell of frenzy usually accompanied by the thought of playing dress up. No, Marcus rather finds himself in a warm embrace, cocooned by strong arms and human contact he’s generally denied himself in fear of contaminating others with his outspoken weirdness. But none of this comes close to that, a hug Marcus greedily accepts as if they’ve never greeted each other as such before. They’re rare, these brief moments of affection, and Marcus’ treasured every one, simply for the fact that Theo, undoubtedly, gives the best hugs, and two, he thinks he could stay right here for a long time, maybe make a nest and a home and saddle himself with Theo’s presence for a lifetime.

And well, that thought is most pressing but terrifying in all the ways he thinks it should be.

“Sorry,” Theo says as he somewhat pulls back from Marcus, not letting him go entirely, and if Marcus’ honest, his apology is utterly uncalled for. “I’ll go if you’ll have me.”

Like the sun in the morn, a smile nearly cracks Marcus’ face right off, gentle laughter escaping. Giddiness, he thinks this is, the sign of uncharted territory that ignites every possibility between them. “I should go,” he admits, fingers curling against Theo’s lower back. He’s greeted with a smile and a nod, no sign of protest despite the fact that something’s significantly shifted between them, a crack in time or just a recently discovered vein exposed to the wonders of the unknown. “I’ll see you there.”

Biting his lip, Marcus extracts himself from Theo’s arms, heat eliminated the moment he does so. But, he remembers, he has something to look forward to now, an opportunity, a beginning, a something he can’t quite put his finger on.

And with that, he figures that whatever _this_ is, it’ll be important, meaningful enough to change his life forever.

++

Somewhere beyond the silence of the corner leading to the temple, there is unruly chatter, music, and a voice urging for all of it to quieten, if only for a moment. Right now, he should be so lucky if all of that were to continue the moment he makes his expected appearance, and the whistle of the wind washes away his confidence by leaving something akin to panic cinching, if not slicing, his throat.

“We don’t have to do this.”

Thor is a pressing weight against his side, their backs against the wall both literally and figuratively. Dizzee knows that he can’t find a scapegoat for this because he brought it upon himself by agreeing to his brother’s terms: bring Thor around or risk them tracking him down. And Dizzee, who very much likes to avoid conflict on staggering levels, knew they’d snag him with that ultimatum if it meant keeping his siblings out of trouble they seemed so desperate to find.

“Yes,” he says with reluctance, for which Thor picks up on immediately, “we do.”

Dizzee closes his eyes, pressing a bony shoulder into Thor’s just so there’s something solid for him to lean on, gain his balance and his thoughts while tiptoeing around a minefield ready to go off at any second. He hadn’t mentioned he was doing this tonight, only asked Thor if he’d like to join him on a stroll to the most prolific space he’d occupied since he found the train yard.

It only took one look from Thor for Dizzee to cave and tell him exactly where that stroll would lead.

And indeed, he’s mentioned his family to Thor before, opened up a side of himself like cracked eggs and spilled milk in the morning. Always attentive, Thor listened to Dizzee and the ruckus his family had caused throughout the years, told him of Yolanda, and Ra, and Boo, and their differences that made them cling together that much harder in the face of adversity. He’d nearly waxed poetics about his mother and her compassion and his father’s replete concern because all he really wants for his children is to have better than he ever did.

Dizzee asked, with so much uncertain delicacy, if Thor would give up hours of his time to meet some of the most important people in his life. His parents, his sister, would come later, if they came at all.

“You’re important to me, too,” he’d finished with, biting away the already chipped polish on his nails. It didn’t take long for Thor’s yes to transcend his ears, like a calming melody in the face of unrest.

Dizzee read the hesitancy in Thor’s eyes, however, with deep-seated questions spiraling to the surface of an already heavy moment between them. He’d paused long enough for Thor to blink away the shadows of a past he had yet to let loose. Some demons took time to uncage.

Then and there, Dizzee decided, it would take more than hammers and stones to pry away the glue and nails that bound him to Thor; it’d take more than soap and water to rinse away the paint that unified them both.

Dizzee hadn’t a clue what horrors Thor might’ve endured, but he could imagine, and that alone is enough to recognize the look on Thor’s face again, a direct manifestation from that night Shao found them and then some. As soon as Dizzee’s eyes are open, it’s what he discerns, and he takes Thor’s hands in his. By pulling him close, Dizzee rests their foreheads together, breathes in the deep scent of cologne and freshly washed hair that is undoubtedly Thor. “I’ll keep you safe,” he whispers.

The smile that breaks out across Thor’s features is everything to write home about. The corner of Dizzee’s own lips curl into a hint of a smile, can almost see the blush across Thor’s cheeks as he tries to hide himself behind the length of his hair. “I thought that was my line.”

“It can be mine, too,” he says, realizing for the first time that this is the first promise he’s spoken aloud. They’d always had an unspoken agreement anyway; from the moment Thor took Dizzee’s hand in his and saved him from the police, there hadn’t been a need for conversation to understand that the two of them lived on a different frequency than the rest of the world. It clicked instantly for them, a feeling Dizzee continues to revel in when he’s alone and there’s time to pull apart his thoughts like strings interconnected throughout a web, tangled and messy, some lax and easy to extract. Sometimes he’ll exam each one, read the writing on the line like a memory played across a projector, the ceiling his TV and eyes so captivated, he can’t look away. Dizzee wants Thor to know that he won’t ever be in this alone. “I don’t want you to worry. I’ve got you.”

Brushing blond strands of hair behind Thor’s ear, Dizzee watches him wet his lips “I’d probably feel better if you weren’t concerned. I can see the line between your brows.”

Thor’s thumb finds its way there, gently rubbing the skin between Dizzee’s brow that tends to crease when he’s thinking too hard or when he’s filled with anxiety on the rare occasion it decides to rear its ugly head.

Lazily, Dizzee brushes his hand away, a soft laugh escaping from Thor’s throat. “I’m bringin’ ‘round a _white boy_ ,” Dizzee says, curling his fingers into the lapel of Thor’s jacket. There’s a line of fake fur that runs down the seam, an attempt to persuade the wearer that it’ll bring them more warmth during the cold winter nights the weather gifts them with each year. “I’ve every reason to worry.”

He’s teasing, but they both know the underlying consequences for their actions if they were to happen across the wrong people, and it suddenly reminds Dizzee what they’re up against. A lesser man might wonder if what they have is worth it, but he thinks that self-discovery and love aren’t things you necessarily choose; they happen in their own time, and how you respond to it is where the true test lies. Dizzee’s risking something far more important than the stars and Rumi tonight, and somewhere inside of him, despite his misgivings and despite the apprehension, just beneath the surface there’s little room for what he thinks might be excitement. He’d be a fool not to consider every possible outcome imaginable, and if one can’t be with a happy ending in this life, then certainly there’s enough of it to spread its wings and plant itself elsewhere in the galaxy.

“I-” Thor starts but cuts himself off. This time, it’s his brows that furrow, all humor wiped away. Dizzee suddenly feels guilt for reminding him of where they are, of what they’re about to do. He didn’t have to burst the bubble they’d been in so quickly. “I know. I know how difficult this is.”

“Do you?” he tests, not to be rude and not to accuse, but maybe Dizzee will have a moment of understanding far beyond where their reach has ever allowed them to go.

“If something happens,” Thor says. “I want you to know I’ll look after you, Dizz. Even if we end- if we grow distant, I’ll still be here.”

Dizzee shakes his head at the thought, a lifetime away it seems if that were to ever happen. But out of the two of them, Thor is the most realistic about circumstances in a way that Dizzee likes to ignore and address only when he sees fit. It brings him to attention, though, reality far too real for his liking, and if he could, Dizzee would very much like to wave his magic wand and transport them anywhere else in the world, the galaxy, but here.

“Sometimes these things hurt far worse than they’re meant to.”

The shadow is back in Thor’s eyes, illuminating pain and radiating heartbreak, so much so it leaves Dizzee breathless. Scenarios run their course through his mind, a young Thor on the cusp of figuring out his style, his music taste, his preference with attraction. Dizzee wonders if Thor brought someone home or if it’d been the other way around. Was he caught in the act or did he freely admit his desires? Were words spewed or was it physical? Thor hasn’t discussed his family, and Dizzee hasn’t asked, and he understands that while the full scope of whatever it is that draws Thor back into darker places is right for the taking if Dizzee would only allow himself that curiosity, the truth is already laid bare before him. Dizzee doesn’t need concrete facts, and he doesn’t need a testimony.

All he has to do is see the pain hardwired into Thor, into the line of his muscles when they grow tense when someone yells _faggot_ or _fairy_ or any other slew of names that are used to describe some of the most beautiful, free people Dizzee has ever had the chance of knowing.

It reminds him of those moments when his skin is a barrier to those filled with animosity and bigotry.

Dizzee grabs Thor’s hand, pressing cool lips against the groove of his knuckles. “Let’s see if we can make it to the opera,” he says, a compromise that they’ll surface on the other side, Rumi and Thor against the world if that’s what it comes down to.

With Thor’s hum of approval, Dizzee turns on his heel and leads the way to the front doors of the temple. The veil of nightfall keeps them safe, with palms pressed together and Thor keeping a steady pace behind him. The door, with its wood and defacing etched into the surface, swings open and allows the two of them to enter without resistance and in peace.

Already, Dizzee hears the music deeply within the walls, no doubt Shaolin stealing moments of precious time to protect the craft he’s learned to respect above all else. It brings Dizzee comfort knowing that there is some semblance of a routine they practice amongst themselves. Despite the artistry at night and regardless of the routines they keep throughout the day, when they enter the temple, every responsibility, every negative event encountered, fades like the sun setting in the sky. Once, Thor showed him what it was like to be free of inhibitions, of judgment, and ridicule, and now Dizzee would like to believe he’s offering the same extension by introducing Thor to his version of freedom, through music and lyrics and comradery between family.

They’re at the doors now, stained glass and dated like they’ve not seen the sun in over a decade. The music is significantly louder, and Dizzee breathes in the familiar scent of mothballs mixed with weed. He knows what occupies the room beyond, a flimsy couch and some chairs, Shao’s turntables, and boxes upon boxes of records that they’ve collectively managed to accumulate to satisfy Shao’s hunger for new beats and rhythms that make their souls come alive.

Dizzee’s hand is squeezed in between the minutes that tick by. The music’s changed into something a little softer, working it’s way into an energetic beat, and in the midst of it, Zeke’s voice washes over them through the double doors. He squeezes Thor’s hand in return, glances at his partner in crime and then shuffles closer to the door, hand on the knob and ready as he’ll ever be.

He’s greeted by Zeke pacing, notepad in hand while reading off lines Dizzee knows he’ll memorize after a few run-throughs. Ra and Boo wait patiently for instructions in their own corners of the room, occupying themselves until Zeke’s ready to hand over their lines of personal identification for their next performance.

Dizzee walks in on normalcy, a sight for sore eyes. Warmth suddenly floods his veins for occupying the space he’s come to love, to exist in, where music flows freely and sparks Dizzee’s imagination that sets Rumi soaring, gives way to the abundance of pent up emotions that a threshold he hadn’t known was there had been holding it all back. Thor is in his cosmos now, by his side and ready to see whatever Dizzee shows him with eager, open eyes, like the world is for the taking. It’s overwhelming feeling on the cusp of something grand, like the beginning of a piano playing, or a guitar, ascending to its highest notes by singing praises to all that will listen.

Dizzee feels the familiar roughness in his throat, the kind that leads him to tears if he’s not careful. Clearing it, he hopes that any of the four boys within the room will notice them, gradually draw their attention one-by-one until the set is complete and both Dizzee and Thor are center stage.

Instead, what happens is most unexpected. Dizzee’s focused on Zeke and Shaolin given they’re directly in his line of sight, but it’s not until Thor’s hand is pulled away from his that he gains composure, startled at the sudden movement. What he finds, however, is nothing to be indignant over. Boo had slipped between them all, sly like a cat and fast as a humming bird. He’d found empty ground beside Thor, feet planted and arms wrapped around the man Dizzee’s come to know as another word for home.

Dizzee opens his mouth to speak, quite nervous yet simultaneously awestruck by the rush of affection. Boo always had a heart bigger than them all with his inability to stay behind and just be. Like a true sibling, he’d always been several steps behind Dizzee, aching to be grown and to be included. Dizzee supposes that this is no exception, particularly when Thor is stuck in place, unsure of what he should be doing with his arms and with the boy who’s suddenly invaded his space.

“If it wasn’t for you,” Boo-Boo is saying, voice magnified by the echo the room’s always provided, “he might’ve died.” Pulling away from Thor, he steps back and stretches down his shirt that had ridden up, brushing off the display of tenderness as shyness sets in because of his actions.

With Dizzee at a loss for words, none other than Thor breaks the silence. The smile that lights up his face is one Dizzee knows way too well, like a flickering flame growing brighter and higher by the second as it races to burn, to shine. Thor rests his hand on Boo’s shoulder for comfort, silently letting him know he took no harm from his embrace. “I like him too much to let him go too soon.”

With that, the heavy mood dissipates, Boo smiling at Thor and then looking at Dizzee with his lips curled in disgust. “Y’all already remind me of Zeke and Mylene,” he says, point blank. “Dunno if that’s a good thing.”

“Hey,” Zeke shouts from behind Dizzee, flipping Boo off.

Boo smirks at Zeke, nodding at Thor and then stalking off as quickly as he’d made an appearance, but not before bumping shoulders with Dizzee in a friendly gesture that lets them both know they’re cool. A weight has been lifted from there; Dizzee can feel it in himself, and he can see it when he smiles at Thor, the laughter lines visible and filled with substantially more mirth than sorrow.

Briefly, Dizzee wonders if he reflects that very look, too.

“So this means you’re okay?” Dizzee calls, pulling himself out his thoughts and away from Thor. If he could, he’d stare for much longer, an energetic aura called telepathy bubbling between them. However, he gives attention to the growing curiosity running rampant. Like mice in a maze, Dizzee wonders if they’ll all make it to the end. Thus far, he’s hopeful.

“He’ll do,” Boo replies from the couch.

Glancing back at Thor, Dizzee holds up a finger to his lips, mouthing _one down, two to go_ , adding another to reflect his counting. “This is Thor,” he says then as a formal introduction rather than continuing the ode of his brothers’ discovering Thor’s existence in his life. “We met while bombing.”

It’s Ra-Ra’s turn to roll his eyes in an exaggerated effort to show he isn’t the slightest bit curious. “Y’all were runnin’ from cops, then?”

With distinct intuition at the forefront of Ra-Ra’s accusation, Dizzee manages to pull sheepishness from underneath the cloak of worry, and Thor simply looks away.

Ra only groans, hands in the air with a growl under the tip of his tongue. “Only you would nearly get caught and have an identity crisis in the midst.”

“True,” Dizzee agrees, and the longer he thinks on it, the more the words _lucky me_ push their way to the forefront of his brain. Without that night, Dizzee wouldn’t be standing here with fingers crossed and filler conversation. His ass would be right on that couch waiting for Zeke to throw words into puzzles, tangling them up before picking out the best ones to use that might make the most impact, that might have the most meaningful message of all.

“Well,” Zeke chimes in, having been a relatively silent party in the mix of things up until now, “he is kind of pretty.”

Ra-Ra tsks, shoving Zeke and snapping. “Shut _up_ , we ain’t supposed to like him yet.”

Behind them, Shao snorts, having spent his time idly twirling records in his hands while patiently – or maybe impatiently – waiting for Dizzee to have his moment. Dizzee reminds himself to pull him aside later and thank him for much more than finding the get down. Through stars and fates, Shao interlaced himself with all of their wooly strands of yarn, lives long and pulled taut, ready for a song to be plucked from the strings they’ve managed to form together. He’d given Dizzee a safe space, allowed him to be an alien in a top hot, and despite Shaolin’s shortcomings, the color of those actions were significantly more impressive and telling of character than the previous routes he’d taken in life to survive.

Besides, Rumi is a survivor, and Dizzee knows how important it is to stick together.

“Alright, enough,” Dizzee says before things escalate further. Zeke looks ready to pounce, and Ra’s already sizing him up despite the height difference between them. Unfortunately, Dizzee knows that even if it is all in good fun, someone always ends up hurt after roughhousing. “Look, this ain’t gonna be a problem, ya?” Shuffling forward, he stands before Zeke and Ra-Ra, eyebrows raised as he waits for their verdict to strike him down or send butterflies fluttering throughout his body.

It’s Zeke that shifts first, glancing over Dizzee’s shoulder to stare at Thor with that blank look he gives sometimes, expression omitted in a way that lets him veer into a pawn in a chess game he generally wins with fast-thinking and analysis. “Fuck him over,” Zeke says, sizing Thor up despite Dizzee knowing the odds aren’t in his favor, “and I’ll fuck _you_ over.”

“I second that,” Ra chimes in, wiry arms crossed as if intimidation from a skinny, lithe kid will provide any sort tremble in an opponent.

While Dizzee rolls his eyes, it’s Thor that plays along, knowing the sincerity in their words and body language and the importance of what this means to Dizzee. Later, Thor’s sure of it, Dizzee will take his hand and speak to him of the relief injected into his veins, how his heart feels swollen with pride and happiness above all else. “Duly noted,” Thor says around a smile, holding it back until he can’t contain the levity both he and Dizzee have been exposed to.

Safety also comes attached to it. Dizzee takes in a new fresh breath of air like he’s expelling the corrupted reflections of self-loathing and torment that had festered inside of his rib cage, growing like mildew and wholly unwelcome. Inside, new flowers grow, portraits of beautiful scenery and landscapes, where Dizzee could dip his toe into the clear water beneath him and bath in liberation

The battle’s not won, but at least it’s a victory in the making.

Until then, Shaolin wrap his knuckles against the table, holding up an album for everyone, including Thor, to see. “I’ve got something for ya,” he says. The record’s in pristine condition, the colors vibrant and Thor’s block handwriting occupying the corner like he’d written on it yesterday. _Sylvester, Step II_.

“Dizz didn’t tell me what he needed them for,” Thor says. “Glad they made it here safe.”

“Of course, man,” Shaolin replies, almost scoffs at the notion that he’d be anything less than careful when it comes to music. “Not bad either.”

“Unfortunately, he got styles.” Ra’s made it over to Zeke, scribbling on the yellow notepad, and it’s hard to tell whether he’s doodling or actually making word adjustments. Though, he glances up and adds, “Makin’ it too damn hard to hate; I saw your piece on the train. Almost as good as Rumi’s, but not quite.”

Thor, in the middle of it all, laughs and nods in agreement, the one that fills his face elation, on the brink of a blush staining his cheeks. “Thank you,” he says quietly, and it’s directed at both Ra-Ra and Shaolin. It’s meant for much more than that, too, the ease of teasing from Dizzee’s brothers, for _that_ night and all the nights Shaolin kept Dizzee safe when he could have easily turned him over to any of the hounds desperate to hunt for prey. It spirals toward Shaolin’s complement in music taste and to much more camouflaged between them, something Dizzee can’t quite pinpoint.

The multi-layered gratitude reverberates enough for Shaolin to feel it, duck his head at the rising emotion of understanding and wanting a place to fit it. “You got any more where that came from?”

Thor acknowledges Dizzee as he passes by him, settles for brushing his fingers against the cool skin of his neck rather than any immediate displays of affection. Tonight, they’ve come a long way, and Dizzee knows they’ve both tested the waters enough for the night. And anyway, it’s not like Dizzee needs to physically prove that what they share is something much deeper than anyone in this room could understand. He hopes one day that they’ll all find it, relative happiness and love so tender, it leaves his heart sympathetic to the human condition of misery and pain. Dizzee knows what it’s like to suffer, but he also knows what it’s like to not to suffer in silence, and for him, that might just be the greatest gift of all.

Where he and Thor end up, he doesn’t know exactly, and nor does he care to think on it to the point of regret. Dizzee’s always been a wild spirit, leading him where the wind takes him, where his heart has told him to go. And certainly that’s led him into trouble more often than not, but he supposes that what makes it worth it; to live as Rumi, to truly be free is one of the best things he ever could’ve allowed himself to do.

Dizzee’s more than happy to chart a course for the stars.

Settling himself on the couch next to Boo, Dizzee leans into his sibling’s space, recognizing the familiar colors of a comic book Boo’s been into recently. He wonders if the hero’s are happy with their storyline, or if there’s a cliffhanger on the final page, millions of youths forced to wait for the next edition with the hopes of an appropriate ending.

Through the lines and the art style, Dizzee relaxes, carefully reading each line. He knows Boo is letting him do it, leaving the page open for longer than he’d normally do so if he were alone. And that’s a comforting thing, something so simple and easy that Dizzee has taken for granted.

He sinks into the couch, senses heightened and heart as light as a feather. Thor’s across the room caught in Shaolin’s spell of artistry, Ra right behind them flipping through records and offering his opinion. Dizzee doesn’t think he’s seen Thor this animated before, aside from the parties they like to attend, drunk on alcohol and mirroring other party people who have found a home away from home.

Like sudden flashes, Dizzee sees Thor differently than he is now, younger, wilder, his first taste of wine, of drugs, of lipstick painted over lips. And like an actual record scratching, Dizzee witnesses the fading of independence sunken into the ground where rain washes away any remnants of identity. Like Thor, it holds Dizzee hostage, unable to blink away illustrations of him dressed as royalty and bowing, on his knees in rags begging for mercy, the moment a gun is pressed against Thor’s chest and aimed over his heart. Like the kaleidoscope of colors when they first met, Dizzee only sees red and bruises now, his anguish over the constellations betraying them, solidified through the fist curled at his side.

Dizzee has that itch to paint Thor up again.

He hasn’t mentioned these visions, if that’s what they are, but he has expressed them through Rumi if they’ve caught his attention enough – like Thor in the sunlight on a hot summer’s day, leading him away from his room through a curtain of petals and shrubs Dizzee’s never seen a day in his life. He chalks it up to stress, or an over imagination that’s stretching beyond its limits now that he has a new canvas to work with. But even with reassuring himself, Dizzee wonders why, if Thor’s a source for unparalleled inspiration, or if Dizzee’s lost in a coma he hasn’t woken up from, that god-awful dust smoke still working its way through his veins.

Dizzee pinches himself, pulling away from the startling image of blood as it leaks from a wound he can’t pinpoint the owner of.

When he blinks, Thor’s concerned eyes are on him, one step away from excusing himself from Shaolin’s presence just to check up on him. Dizzee smiles, albeit not the best or the brightest he could’ve given, but it’s enough to settle Thor for the time being. Instead, Dizzee draws himself back to the comic, back to lives that don’t belong to him, that aren’t real.

On this very night, he decides to realign his thoughts, take the extra time to thank his good graces and appreciate the small moments that have helped shaped him into an existing human being. Self-consciousness be damned; Dizzee will make up for it in all the ways he knows how, reinventing himself, molding his body, his mind like clay. He’ll try as hard as he might to be a better human because of it, a better alien at the very least.

And he’ll forget about his dreams and the uncertainty they bring along with them.

++

He wrings his hands like maybe that’ll satisfy the desperate cry of anxiety floating throughout his body. The normality of stressful bodily signals due to diplomatic events with fake smiles, well wishes, and lies isn’t as subdued as they ought to be. Regardless of the attendees’ love of fancy parties and the excitement it brings every year, this isn’t their first go around, and it certainly won’t be their last - Marcus included.

More importantly, however, is the fact that they all know _who_ he is, too. It’s difficult to miss the Royal Prince when he enters the room, whispers rolling off the tongues with claims of eligibility. It makes him shudder, the very thought of realizing a room full of eyes expect Marcus to come across a particular interest and seize it, a lucky person’s dream come true. Unfortunately for them, he’d like to let them all know that business with the kingdom is nothing, if not, dreadful. It’s never close to whimsical tales of luxury and servants, but more of a recurring nightmare he can’t wake up from. Mainly, he knows, people only want the value in that and a shiny new title over the sole purpose of love.

He’s bitter at heart, maybe. Regrettably a little jaded.

He should’ve asked his parents if he could’ve sat this one out, in all honesty.

But he can’t because he appreciates the crown and the privilege, and he must show that exceptionally well to bona fide companions who help regulate an entire kingdom on his family’s behalf. It’s one night out of many, so Marcus can’t be disappointed. He’d only been hoping Theo would’ve shown to save his night from falling into hell; though Marcus’ not entirely sure why that is, and any answers to rising questions hasn’t appeared.

With drinks flowing and music playing, there’s conversation and only so much gratitude he can give before his mouth hurts from smiling; tongue swollen with dryness, it’d rival any desert in the world. Arguably, he should be having a very lovely evening with as much gossip circling the premises, but Marcus’ impatient, and maybe he’d grown too hopeful.

Either way, he mingles, charming his way through diplomats and blushing ladies; he doesn’t fail to notice the men who eye him, keenly aware that Marcus has no preferences. Announcing such a thing hadn’t been a burden, nor had he made it entirely public, but at this point, it’s less about stating his sexuality than the blurred lines of bestowed knowledge, particularly involving people he’s supposedly willing to fuck as he pleases - at least that’s the point of view he knows that many have. Marcus’ not just a prince, but he’s the spitting image of entitlement to the majority in the crowd without knowing a lick about him. No matter the title he’s had to fight against his entire life, dispelling stereotypes that come along with it, he’ll be damned if he allows others to undermine him in a quest to see how loose he is.

He isn’t. Marcus’ never been the kind, too caught up in destiny and the like. But more than that, a beautiful boy had caught his attention mere months ago.

A boy who still isn’t here despite the promise he’d made, and while Marcus should be offended; and yet, in his heart of hearts, he understands the intimidating aspect the palace brings down upon anxiously riddled nerves.

Sighing, Marcus watches the couple before him turn, leaving him with a moment of peace before he’ll happen upon more talkative patrons. Momentarily, he wonders how his siblings are fairing, if they’re caught up in the daze of adult responsibility or if his parents have let them roam the castle without worry of pivotal burdens. Marcus supposes the king and queen allowed them a five-minute stay before sending them off, not having seen Yolanda, out of them all, once tonight. She’s talkative, way more into smiling and being the actual princess she is as she’s deceptively good with public personas. Marcus, unfortunately, is the first born, and he thinks that if God’s made any mistakes, that would count as one of them.

Until then, Marcus mopes, already hearing his mother’s voice in the back of his head: stand tall, keep your expressions interested, and for the love of god, look like you’re enjoying yourself.

Sadly, Marcus never liked those memos, and even better, he hardly follows them.

As he stands there, in the swirl of large dresses and court jackets, he swerves just when he notices someone approaching, turning his back by heading to the table of refreshments. It isn’t with regret when he asks for alcohol, the waiter tipping his head with a simple, “Your highness.”

There’s no nametag on his suit, so Marcus smiles and nods when the flute of champagne brushes against his fingers. He’d saved the drinking for last, hoping he’d find the ability to wait til the end of the night before letting it hit his system. Though the ache in his shoulders tell a different story, pinched nerves that travel up the back of his neck to the base of his skull. The hope is that maybe it’ll wash away the brunt of the night and the monotonous music that dulls his sense, but Marcus is only a young man, and the night is far from over.

As soon as the champagne is gone, Marcus hands the glass off to a passing waitress who doesn’t bat an eye at him. That, he finds, isn’t an entirely new reaction; it’s actually one he finds rather pleasing. To be the most recognizable person in the room yet be so invisible to people who look his way, speaks volumes to the austerity of relevance everyone aligns themselves with. Marcus, by nature, is a subtle human being, but more than that, he feels like an alien when all eyes are on him.

And all eyes are definitely on him.

He blinks, worried that he’s missed a social cue. But the music is playing and the seconds tick by, and he realizes that someone is calling his name. And it’s not just the redundant use of _your highness_ or _prince_ or whatever hellish name they want to lavish him with. It’s simply _Marcus_ , the nickname he’d been given as a child, the one he’d introduced himself as so few times, and more than that, a name that rings fucking taboo in a socialistic event such as this.

“How disrespectful,” someone says, beady little eyes pointed at someone dressed impeccably well.

Marcus follows their line of sight and is ultimately greeted by Theo, dressed to the nines and looking more than bashful at the reproach. To say he sticks out like a sore thumb would be an understatement; not that he isn’t looking the part, but Marcus recognizes the fragility of Theo’s demeanor, the uncomfortable silence brought along by taking chances.

“Theo-”

“So now we allow heathens into such establishments,” the woman continues, head cocked to the side and certainly stirring up a much larger audience.

What she’s really doing is pissing Marcus off, brow arching an unfavorable glance her way. Marcus’ used to a crowd even if he hates the notion of being on display, but Theo isn’t, and it’s a dead giveaway when his shoulders give into the obstinate pressure. Guilt hits Marcus like a wave for allowing the strain to happen in the first place, too excited and worn down from previous events to want suffer on his own. So with a tight smile, Marcus simply says, “I’d mind your tongue,” before giving a half bow, reaching for Theo’s hand and guiding him away from exasperated crowd.

Now his mockery will spread like wildfire, and if his mother takes him by the ear to admonish him later, then so be it.

“They didn’t even announce you, and you’ve still made an entrance.”

“I’m sorry,” Theo eventually replies when Marcus’ found a quiet spot in the corner of the ballroom several rooms over from the main event. “I didn’t mean to be late.”

It’s the safest place he could think of aside from roaming the halls, and he knows that’d be a disaster in the making if he were caught leaving. Caught leaving with someone in tow, as it were, and Marcus’ not ready for those kind of scandals just yet

Later, but not yet.

“I didn’t mean to spring this on you,” Marcus acknowledges instead, the elephant in the room too massive to ignore in lieu of addressing apologies that aren’t needed. “Ripping the bandaid off sounded like a far better approach.”

Perched against the wall, Theo smiles, hesitations draining like the ease in which water flows. What it does, really, is allow Marcus the opportunity to appreciate the fact that he’s never actually seen Theo in anything other than jeans and a t-shirt, flour and sugar in the beds of his fingernails, dusted along strands of hair like newly fallen snow. This look, with the suit and the tie, the shiny black shoes, hair framing his face, well, it’s a good one. It sends those butterflies, that awkward feeling he thought had only been reserved for the bakery, through his veins and back again, a cyclical rush of oxytocin. “Could’ve told me, you know,” Theo says without acrimony, more like soft understanding regarding Marcus’ situation. Instead, he huffs a laugh, and finishes with, “Would’ve saved me the trouble of standing outside for twenty minutes debating on whether I should come in or not.”

“I didn’t ask you because I’m a prince,” he replies dourly, that guilt seeping through the cracks again. Marcus’ never done this before, hasn’t had much practice with people outside the palace. The most obvious reason he hadn’t said anything had been due to the possibility of people abusing Marcus’ power in such a way, he couldn’t ever really recover from. Theo, he thought, had played his part by selling Marcus a simple sugar twist, and from there, he hadn’t known they’d end up somewhere between confidant and potential partner material. Maliciousness was never at play, and while cruel to inflict Theo to a world he’s never known without a little prep work, there’s something to be said about the courage and perseverance it took to find Marcus.

“Oh,” Theo starts, nodding at something slightly above Marcus. His eyes linger there for only a moment, drawn away by Marcus biting his lip. “Must’ve missed that.” Sarcasm at most but mirthful at best, Theo grins wide when Marcus reaches for the delicate metal that sits upon his head. He’d almost forgotten it was there, the crown another status symbol if he ever recognized one.

And now he’s downright embarrassed. “This is so pretentio-”

“You asked me because you trusted,” Theo interrupts, saving Marcus from the heat bubbling behind his cheeks, the warmth seeping up to the tips of his ears. Theo’s not playing the part of a baker tonight, and Marcus supposes that’s to be expected, but he wonders the differences when the scenes have changed and the context alters, if the Theo right now varies far from the person he’s come to know.

Thus far, Marcus can’t make the distinction.

“You’re not mad?” he asks, tone lilting with hesitation. Theo seems far from it, but to be on the safe side never actually hurts. Quite frankly, he hadn’t thought this far ahead: invite Theo, share a dance, find the nerve to ask him out, but the conversations between those steps were nothing but an afterthought. It all came down to more than anyway, trust and familial approval all the while risking a poignant friendship.

“No,” Theo says, stepping away from the wall. He takes a moment to observe the room around him, extravagant through and through. Tapestries hang from the ceiling surrounding a glass chandelier, light bouncing off the crystal imprints of gems; it hits the mirrors that adorn two of the walls, and far beyond that, just a stretch away, glass doors run top to bottom. It’s a scene out of a movie, charms Marcus every time he catches Ra or Boo attempting new dances to care what others think of them.

But it’s not the room that Marcus watches; it’s Theo’s profile and the thrift of conversations they’ve had together, the utter excitement that Theo exists far beyond the measures of walls.

“And I bet that was an awfully difficult thing to do,” he finishes, turning to Marcus, hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks. He looks quite like a lost boy ready for an adventure, willing to let it sweep him off his feet, down into the unknown.

Somehow, Marcus thinks he could offer him that, and more so, he wants to. “Would you like to dance?” Extending his hand, he hopes that Theo will take it, a silent promise exchanged. And he does; like a quick flash of lightening, something ignites between them, stronger than before but significantly brighter. Marcus doesn’t care about anything else, reaffirmed through small things like insight and proving himself wrong. He’d only ever wanted someone to understand him on a wavelength no one else could, and the fact that he’s potentially found that in Theo opens doors he never even knew were closed.

“I don’t think I’ll be very good at this,” Theo says through Marcus’ thoughts, sentient but steady like a rock bed beneath an ever-flowing stream. “I’ve not had much practice.”

“Don’t worry,” Marcus says with a smile, levity weighing the situation from one end of self-doubt to the highest perch of confidence. Gently, he squeezes Theo’s hand, and in return, he adds a simple, “I’ve got you.”

++

Dizzee’s always believed that some things happen for a reason, and it makes no difference how or why or when. If destiny is to play the violin, the hum of his life in one unwritten, intangible melody, he figures there might always be a mistake from time to time. Whether tonight could be called a mistake is hardly the question he’s asking himself; rather he’d like to know if he and Rumi have always been destined for something far greater than he could ever comprehend.

While the thought had always rattled around in that skull of his, he hadn’t planned on receiving answers to questions he’d had for ages, locked away tight and waiting for the right moment to unveil themselves.

And to make matters worse, what he also hadn’t expected was the truth, by all accounts, to come knocking all at once. Like thunderous waves against the sand, he’s flooded with too much and too little, only one heart to process what a lifetime it’d take to explain.

It starts one evening like this: It’s a rare night for Dizzee, sleeping over at Thor’s place, where he discovers the animosity between Thor and his past. More importantly, he discovers why Thor’s on his own. Wandering about the loft, he’s curious whether Thor kept it for painting purposes or if he’d made this little nest a permanent home until he could move on to better things as time went on. It takes him no time at all to find his place near the wall, though, interest piqued and feeling rather adventurous. The painting he’s currently constructing during his bout of thoughts have taken a different turn than he initially expected, from Rumi to the dark of the galaxy, yellow and white stars winking at visitors from earth.

“I thought I could trust them,” Thor says from across the room, soft music from the record player trailing his sentence. It’s like he’d known all along where Dizzee’s mind has been. Two psychic boys, Dizzee remembers, and he shutters at how startling true that statement was and still is.

Dizzee doesn’t look over his shoulder because Thor seems casual enough; that and he’s almost finished with his newest masterpiece. Although, he does ask a simple, “Who?” despite already having an inkling of understanding whom this subject matter is actually about. When Dizzee’s met with complete silence for far too long, it’s then that he gives Thor his full attention.

Awkwardly, and under the gaze of Dizzee’s eyes, Thor shuffles nervously; it takes hold of his limbs in such a way Dizzee has only seen a handful of times. As unusual as it is, he doesn’t comment, only allow Thor his space when it’s very clear he’s struggling for words, to be open and honest.

And that was one thing Dizzee had quickly learned about Thor in their time spent together. Dizzee trusted a little too easily, loved and supported by a family that didn’t always understand him but tried nonetheless. Thor, on the other hand, had trouble letting secrets go, had trouble telling Dizzee what he wanted, afraid of his touch in the dark of the night when a nightmare would hit, leaving him shaky and sweaty. Thor had his moments of boldness, like the night he took Dizzee on an extravagant dance full of free people being free, but sometimes, sometimes that confidence would deflate as quickly as a popped balloon.

It wasn’t always that way, though, like gentle ripples in a pond, those moments would be fleeting, Thor every bit as comfortable in his skin as Dizzee. Yet tonight, something’s wavered, fragile and broken, a bird no longer free from the chains that bound it to the floor of offenses.

Thor still doesn’t look at him when he answers with, “My parents.”

Torn, that’s what Dizzee feels, to climb down the ladder and comfort Thor even though he knows his hold won’t change the past. The other part of him wants to remain where he is, fixed to his spot, scared of frightening the timid animal before him. “Were they good people?”

Thor snorts and shakes his head. “Maybe before the money,” he says. “But definitely not after.”

Within his chest, Dizzee’s heart twinges with a selfish moment of relief that his parents were his parents, and while they didn’t have a lot, they made up for it through loving their children no matter the circumstance, hard work, and inspiring Dizzee and his siblings to reach far beyond space and time to find the things that made them most happy. Though as quickly as he thinks it, he scolds himself because clearly not all are as lucky as he, which means pain and unresolved issues, and a Thor who doesn’t mean to project his hurt through silent tears when he thinks Dizzee isn’t looking.

“Thor,” Dizzee calls, tapping the wooden end of his paintbrush against his thigh. “What did they do to you?” He doesn’t mean for pity to seep through his question, does himself a favor by setting down his tools and climbing down from his highpoint, slowly stepping towards Thor.

“Out of them both, I thought my mother would understand,” Thor replies as casually as ever, as if his issues had suddenly been resolved, telling a story of the past with such convincing neutrality, Dizzee wonders if he’d overplayed the dramatic on accident. “They kicked me out.”

At first, the reality of the statement doesn’t actually seem real despite Dizzee knowing that this isn’t something he dreamed up, isn’t an erroneous backstory meant to placate him and his need to know Thor through and through. But the living embodiment of results that Thor’s actions had set in place when he’d opted for being himself rather than an illusion he’d spend the rest of his life trying, and failing, to perfect, is right before Dizzee’s eyes. The proof, the evidence, all he’ll ever need, all that Thor is and all that Thor has, is right under his fingertips, right under the soles of his shoes. Unhappiness would’ve trailed Thor, Dizzee knew, just as giving up any part of himself would’ve lead to the same results. For what little Thor has, Dizzee doesn’t blame him, and he understands a lot more than Thor would give him credit for seeing as Dizzee hasn’t shown his boyfriend his entire world yet either - his home, his bedroom, had been the last place on his list, left unchecked and idle until he was ready.

Because of that, Dizzee doesn’t persist with Thor’s confession, with the little amount of trust he’s granted Dizzee to do with as he pleased. Instead, he lets the proud define the moment, the feeling that lets his heart sing. Reaching for Thor, Dizzee gathers him in his arms, frame a little too large to be coddled as such, but he does it anyway. Before Thor can ask what he’s doing, Dizzee presses his lips against every inch of Thor’s face, every part he can reach. The height difference doesn’t prove a problem with Thor’s head already gracefully bowed and Dizzee bestowing a kingly pardon. He whispers endearments across the lines and planes of Thor’s face, a river of comfort that won’t stop flowing. Even with sharp angles and the beginnings of new growth near Thor’s jaw line, Dizzee lets it be known that if Thor hadn’t found the love he needed where it should’ve come from in the first place, he had it now from people who cared, cared enough about him as if he were one of their own.

Because despite his and Thor’s differences in everything, all the way down to the color of their skin and the shade of their eyes, Dizzee’s family had let him in with open hearts and curious minds and kindness bestowed upon them as children, meant to learn and present such wonders to the world, if only to make the world a little less chaotic. “Are you proud of yourself?” he asks eventually, lips parting from the corner of Thor’s, delicate and pink and unwavering despite the glass of his eyes betraying how he really feels.

It takes another beat or two for Thor to answer, carefully distancing himself from Dizzee’s kiss and his orbit and everything he appreciates about the boy. Though as much as he tries to extract himself, an attempt to gather his thoughts without Dizzee’s presence hindering his speech, Dizzee keeps his hands firmly planted around Thor’s waist, eyebrows raised in a challenge. So Thor stays because ultimately, it’s what he wants, and he already feels like he belongs there, right from the very beginning. “I think I am,” he replies softly.

Dizzee smiles kindly, brushing the pads of his fingers against the length of Thor’s jaw, then curling them into the shorter layers of hair that frames his face. “Then that’s all that should matter,” he says, wording it in such a way that lets Thor know he’s still allowed to grieve, still allowed sorrow to fill his marrow, his bones, and his blood for something that never should’ve happened in the first place. Rejection is an awful thing Dizzee has experienced; from head to toe, the very essence of Rumi had been based upon the simple revelation that people hate what they don’t understand and aren’t willing to change their mind in return for pure love. It never makes sense, no logic to define the whys and the hows, and it will always sting.

The best way Dizzee’s learned to deal with it is to feel it, express it, and covet the fault in the cracks of humanity so that one day, he may learn all its secrets, have an understanding far beyond his wildest dreams. After all, he’d like to think that thus far, it’s shaped him into a pretty decent human, a pretty decent alien named Rumi who isn’t scared of the opera anymore.

Eventually, Thor encourages Dizzee to finish painting. The sun long fallen from the sky, shadows dancing across the walls due to limited light in the loft. But Dizzee likes it that way, reminds him of spray painting train cars only without the adrenaline and limited time bombers have to complete their work. He appreciates the length Thor goes to to find clean sheets as a substitute for a canvas, large swathes of fabric covering the one wall not coated in paint and details that distinctly make up the god of thunder.

By the time he’s finished, the record’s stopped playing, and it’s late into the night. Dizzee generally has no concept of time within these four walls, doesn’t like to be held back by little hands counting away numbers. From the corner of the room, Thor’s fast asleep, chest rising and falling with each breath. There’s paint staining his shirt and his arms, and Dizzee would probably scold him for not cleaning up if it weren't for his own tired eyes and the need to slot himself next to Thor for the night. So that’s how he rests, a little messy but happy, Thor a solid weight at his side. It’s not often he gets to stay, relying on his brothers as alibis if he ever feels restless enough to leave home.

At some point, Dizzee falls asleep stretched thin amongst worlds, lost to sleep and dreams and wherever else Rumi is willing to explore. Sometimes being unconscious to the world around him allows a map to form, a plan for his day designed before he even wakes. And sometimes he thinks maybe it’s his heart and soul entwined, conspiring together to give him the most out of life, giving him the courage to live on the edge of creativity and passion. Like lately, it’s gone much farther than that, extended into shapes and colors that inspire new narratives for Rumi. Dizzee’s always had a story to tell, and on the rare occasions he hasn’t, he’ll wonder what he’s missed, what made him stumble from the usual.

This time, it’s the second round of truth that inhibits him from safety.

Within the breadth of his imagination, Dizzee shuffles lethargically around dirt stained red, fails to understand exactly what he’s looking at. The sky runs shades of magenta, the sun green, and the clouds purple. Voices are much more tight-lipped here than they are outside, hisses of whispers congratulating him on the victory.

And gunshots. Dizzee knows the difference between them and fireworks.

Panic, that’s all he feels, the swelling call to arms, for someone to simply _help_. From what, he doesn’t know, but his throat is dry and the smell of copper makes him queasy. Dizzee looks and he looks and he turns and what he finds is a battlefield crawling with lifeless bodies and crushed foliage that never had a chance of survival. Water leaks across the dirt, turning it to mush beneath his feet, and nothing makes sense - his shoes don’t match, and his pants are a god-awful shade of green, far from the red devil avocado he’d discovered in the little art supply store in the middle of town over a year ago. It’s camouflage, Dizzee thinks. Or maybe it’s just a dark, muted green, but it’s hard to tell given the grim across his legs, red brush strokes licking up his torso. He’d bet if he touched it, it wouldn’t come anywhere close to the feeling of dried paint on cloth.

Immediately, he feels the need to scream, feels it resting at the top of his chest, but his voice cracks when he opens his mouth to make a sound. It’s then that he’s startled, lip pressed together, glancing in the direction of a hoarse voice calling his name. Dizzee furrows his brow, knows better than to walk around a place that cries danger and demise.

But he’s already here, and if he’s meant to die, he supposes that maybe somewhere on the other side is significantly better than the field of death he’s currently standing in.

He walks as carefully as he can, water and mud further soaking his boots. He’s almost afraid he’ll sink into the ground below, like it’ll swallow him whole and end his misery. But he keeps going, his name called once more, and it’s familiar, that voice. Dizzee steps over torn ligaments and overturned bodies. The bullet holes almost glitter in the sun, shiny and wet with leaking blood through the chests of men that had once been living. Dizzee isn’t much for guessing, preferring context over assumptions, but he supposes he can say that this is what war looks like, and war is a very cruel, ugly business.

Along the way, he stumbles over rocks, finds precarious personal belongings like cracked eye glasses and dog tags engraved with names on them. While tempted to pick them up, Dizzee doesn’t, letting the metal warm from the sun, finding that if he reaches for what’s not his, he’ll commit sacrilege, disturbing what he knows will become a mass grave for these men left behind.

It’s then his foot catches on something solid, Dizzee stiffly landing halfway on top of an injured soldier who moans at the additional pressure. Dizzee scrambles off of him quickly, examining the body as if he knows what to do to keep someone alive; he doesn’t, but this feels important, humanity on the cusp of a great, dark fall. The palms of his hands assess the damage where Dizzee expects to find bullet wounds littering a pale body. It’s taken on an ashy tone, shock and blood loss setting in, and he supposes it’s a miracle the man’s breath remains shallow. “What’s your name?” Dizzee asks, fingers dancing across skin and fabric, trying to find the source of pain. There are no signs of bullet entries, but eventually he stumbles across a cut on the side of the soldier’s abdomen, deep and welted like someone had plunged a knife straight into his body, had every intention of slicing all the way across but never finished the job.

Dizzee doesn’t know what to do from here, and he knows the possibility that death is coming for this man, if not for them both. Instead of focusing on the wound, he lifts his gaze, centering on a face turned away from him. “Hey,” he says gently. Carefully, Dizzee cups the man’s cheek, turning him forward while scared of finding lifeless eyes before him. He’s never touched a dead body, never mind the fact that he’s never witnessed death so close.

But what he finds makes his stomach curl anyway, the nausea returning instantly when familiar, light eyes meet his own. “Thor?” he asks with a wet rasp, not understanding a damn thing, a mess of confusion pummeling what’s left of his sanity. Below him, Thor smiles likes there’s nothing wrong, like Dizzee’s in bed with him, and they’re safe instead of lying in a field of decay.

Thor says nothing to him despite Dizzee pleading him to. He chokes on his words, emotions full to the brim when he realizes that everything is wrong and this place is _wrong_. It looks pink when it should be blue, and there’s so much crimson, he’s sure he could bathe in it if he wanted, painted and smeared and leaking out of every crevice it seizes for itself. Dizzee even finds it masking Thor’s hand like a glove slipped delicately over nimble fingers as soon as he reaches for Dizzee, smoothing his palm over Dizzee’s cheek for what they both know is the last time.

“I don’t understand,” he whispers to Thor, but he only receives a heavy blink in return. Dizzee feels the moment Thor’s hand goes slack, feels the remnants of blood on his cheek and what it means for a soul to evaporate within thin air.

Sitting back, choked sobs wrack his body before he can mentally comprehend what he fully feels; he can’t _breathe_ , and he wonders when it became so difficult, his vision swimming, him in hysterics until he wakes ever so quickly from this world to another.

And this time, he’s back in blue, staring at a blank, white ceiling and paint covered walls. Dizzee feels the wet on his cheeks from blood or tears, he doesn’t know yet, but he sits up trying his best to contain the residue of a nightmare he can’t yet shake. With the adrenaline still left in him, plaguing his thoughts, sending chills up his spine enough to elbow Thor with the scrambling need of verification, Dizzee untangles their limbs. He turns to his boyfriend, knowing the truth but needing it to be tangible, and drags the sheets away from their bodies. “Let me-” he begins, even though Thor is just now waking, blinking up at him with sleep-filled eyes and utter confusion.

The pads of Dizzee’s fingers flit across pale skin again, eerily familiar and over Thor’s face, down his neck, into the dips of his collarbones before settling over the expanse of his chest. Part of him is shaking, wrists delicate and mind numb as he tries to pull pieces from the nightmare back into existence, trying his best to remember what he had seen, rattled by how utterly real it all had been. Logically, he knows he won’t find anything. He’s memorized Thor’s body like the back of his hand, but his heart is in his throat, and he’s frantically trying to find rationality after the plague of waking up from witnessing a death so callous. Dizzee swears the blood of the wound and the blood that marred his face is still wet, still palpable. If he wanted, he imagines he could paint with the elixir if he only reached down and grazed the floor beneath him.

“Dizz- hey, _Dizzee_ ,” Thor is calling for him, somewhere distantly, somewhere close, like a ghost in the night. “What’s going on?”

He feels Thor’s hands on his, trying as he might to still Dizzee from his erratic behavior. Yet, he pulls free of Thor’s loose grip, searching, blinking in the low light as if he might suddenly see whatever it is he’s searching for. There’s no time to answer Thor, at least at the moment there isn’t, so he leaves the question buried beneath bewilderment and the echoing sound of Thor’s last breath before he passed.

Ultimately, Dizzee doesn’t find anything, shoulders suddenly slumping, eyes wet with unshed tears. Sweat clings to the corner of his brow, but Dizzee’s hesitant to wipe it away for fear that he’d draw back much more than perspiration. “It was awful,” he says with a whisper, a little wild in the eyes as he finally meets Thor’s gaze. Their position is uncanny, has to remember that nightmares are only what his mind conjures, but even that doesn’t settle much given the fact that he himself had dreamt of death and how sticky blood feels when it’s drying. “I- you _died_ , Thor.”

“Dizzee,” he say softly, sadly but not with pity; it’s anguish over Dizzee feeling bereft, full of doubt and loss. Thor has every intention of taking Dizzee’s hands in his again, and as Dizzee realizes this, the length of his arm brushes against the side of Thor’s ribcage. It’s a wide stretch of skin, smooth without the added concaves from bones that might sometimes peek through.

The difference in skin texture is subtle, however, but all it takes is one touch for Dizzee to comprehend it.

He freezes at first, startling Thor with an unnatural reaction, brows furrowing and tongue suddenly tied. Dizzee reaches across Thor’s torso, fingers caressing the delicate texture of skin that does not match the rest of the space around it. The line is jagged, rough as if Thor might’ve been sliced weeks ago, and Dizzee imagines in proper lighting he’d find the scar pink and raised from abuse and mending cells. “That wasn’t there,” he says plainly, like he’s Thor when he’d confessed abuse, more than half of what his parents had done to him; Dizzee keeps himself neutral in the aftermath of confirming what shouldn’t exist. The slow build up of tears is inevitable, but they do not fall, trying as he might to pretend he hadn’t just woken up from a goddamn nightmare. “This wasn’t there before, Thor.”

A simple explanation will suffice, Dizzee thinks. There ought to be one, an occurrence Thor hadn’t brought up in conversation between the two of them. But the longer the lull unfolds, Dizzee knows there isn’t an account to reveal because Thor has that look again, the one Dizzee’s never been able to pinpoint. This time, it’s glaringly obvious something is going on, and as he’d thought about it before, he always _knew_ it was a thing but not exactly _what_ that thing was. Now, he decides, Thor knows more than he’s letting on, always has been, and Dizzee’s tired of being in the dark. He’d always figured the stars in the sky would light the way to whatever corner of the universe he’d find himself in, but he’s beginning to believe that this is more immense than the stars could handle themselves.

Dizzee’s practically in Thor’s lap at this point; it’s easy to see, easier to touch, using that as the singular form of communication between them. Thor sits up though, adjusts Dizzee so his thighs are on either side of his hips, lip caught between his teeth. “You should sleep,” he says quietly.

This is Thor baiting him, allowing Dizzee an out in case he’s not ready for the certainty preceding the statement. While Dizzee appreciates it, it’s too late to turn back now, not with Thor’s heartbeat underneath the palm of his hand, steadily beating within his chest as opposed to a decaying organ. “I dreamed you _died_ ,” he nearly hisses unkindly, as if he’s the recipient of a prank gone wrong, Thor switched with another in the middle of the night, leaving Dizzee alone to figure out whether he’d be smart enough to notice. “You bled out in my arms,” and he rubs his thumb against the mended flesh, careful not to press in case the wound is tender, “This mark _wasn’t there_.”

“Do you always have these dreams?” Thor asks in return, not denying any of Dizzee’s statements, which must mean there’s a hint of validity to them.

As unsettling as that might be, Dizzee chooses to focus on the question, handling only one part of the bigger picture at a time. “Where you die?” he deadpans, watching as Thor flinches before turning away from him. Guilt ascends like a flickering flame with too much enthusiasm, so he clears his throat and proceeds without an apology in hopes that the rest of their conversation will prove much more productive. “Once before, I think you did,” he says. Remembering the nightmare he’d woken up from is already difficult enough, but looking back on dreams or visions or whatever the hell Dizzee’s found himself in, results in difficulty when all of them weren’t very clear to begin with. “It’s like smoke, and they come at strange times.”

“I didn’t think you’d remember,” Thor replies, finally returning his gaze to Dizzee’s. It makes his chest tighten, breath weaken with what he finds in Thor’s iris’, as if they’ve aged a thousand years, maybe more, within the span of a minute. Any anger, any frustration, and any worry he might’ve had drains away like melting ice, and the questions that arise simmer to the surface of an already heated pool. “Sometimes you do, and sometimes you don’t.”

He knows, deep down Dizzee knows, but he doesn’t really, and that’s what confuses him the most. His reality versus the way things should be; accepting the possibility of the impractical, most inconceivable notion that this is not the only life he’s lived. Dizzee’s always had a knack for confusion, for understanding the world in shapes and colors people don’t often see, but how could he admit that despite all the time he thought he had a decent hand over the game of life, life itself managed to pull the rug out from underneath him? Scared to ask because of the stupidity of the question, but understanding the circumstances, Dizzee simply says, “Remember what?”

Thor huffs out a laugh, the absurdity taking root. But Dizzee has memories, and Thor’s got scars, and what other explanations do they have to work with? “Me,” he says. “Us. Together.”

“Are we aliens or gods-” Dizzee begins but stops. Does he want to know if Thor has the answer? And more importantly, does all of this change anything between them, between this life and the next, and all the ones in between?

And while Dizzee’s stumped, there’s Thor with his hand, curling it around Dizzee’s. It stills his mind in an instant, the hurricane no longer ravishing for sustenance and destruction. “I don’t have all the answers for you,” Thor says with honesty, like he’s in the midst of working out the entire untethered puzzle pieces he’d been left to put together. “I just know you’re here. You’re here, and when I took your hand, I knew.”

Dizzee both feels and remembers that familiar sensation, the one that’d traveled up his arm when they’d first met, that twinge of relief mixed with adventure. If Dizzee could ask himself, ask Rumi if he’d change it, rewinding time to the moment in the tunnels, back to when Thor’s existence was nothing but a painting and a four letter name not yet defined by a face and a beating heart, Dizzee knows his answer would be no. Wanting to turn back is the admission of mistakes, and Dizzee hardly sees what’s between them as a grievance.

And then quietly in the back of his mind, similar to the gentle flap of a butterfly’s wings, _Would fate continue to bring us together if we were only a miscalculation?_

He’s always been the weird one, always been teased for his eccentricities, always felt like an alien in a top hat, but Thor had been one of the few to understand, the first to take his hand, call him a genius and let Dizzee experience the world as everyone else has the right to explore it. Dizzee wasn’t ever trapped, but he’d been set free in ways he hadn’t thought possible. His imagination extended far beyond the conceivable, but even then it had its limitations. So maybe there’s no exception to the moment Dizzee hadn’t questioned Thor and how naturally they fell in line with one another.

It had honestly felt like home.

Squeezing Thor’s hand tight, Dizzee releases it and squeezes again. The heat of their palms together a non-issue, with Dizzee closing his eyes and focusing in on whatever is mind is willing to give him. At first, it’s the softness of Thor’s hand from high society, the shift of hard labor, gashes on his palm so deep, blood had run down his fingers like spilled wine. Dizzee feels that blood flow, and he hears it sing a thousand songs, all lived and breathed and shared between the two of them.

“I loved you,” he whispers, tilting his head to the side ever so slightly, eyes sliding open with newfound wisdom, a second awakening, a second death. Dizzee’s died in all the ways that count, but he’s lived prosperously, too. “In another life. In many.”

They are statements. They are facts. And they come from curious moments Dizzee hadn’t an explanation for. Blurry as most of it is and not entirely certain what he’s meant to be seeing within his mind’s eye, it doesn’t feel like a lie, doesn’t feel like he’s high off drugs. Dizzee’s always trusted his heart; why would it lie to him now?

“And in this one?”

Dizzee considers it, but it’s not like it takes him long to find the answer he’s known for quite some time now. He’s found a key, he thinks, the long lost part of him buried deep, etched with the beginnings of an unrelenting chisel forming cracks. “I love you here, too.” They echo in the room, in his head, in his chest, and not just from the weight of his heart as light as a feather, but from the hundreds of times he’s told Thor. Dizzee has soaring questions that could test the fate of his soul, his destiny, and maybe one day he’ll be brave enough to look that far.

But for now, he’s content, filled with the knowledge and relief that his memories hadn’t been projections, that those flowers he’d smelled hadn’t been an afterthought, or Thor hadn’t just been mischievous in his dreams. “Do you think we’ll be happy in this one?” he asks because the bitter truth remains that death had followed them for centuries, and Dizzee isn’t sure if he’s willing to let any of this go when they’re young, and they’re free, and they have so much ahead of them.

It seems Thor ponders the question, wetting the bottom of his lip with the tip of his tongue, fingers gently digging into Dizzee’s hip as an anchor for them both. He’s reminiscing, a thousands stories, moments between them both Dizzee doesn’t entirely remember yet.

But he will. He’ll make damn sure he will.

“I hope so,” Thor says, because even a god cannot know what lies ahead of them both. He presses his forehead to Dizzee’s and smiles, knowingly, lovingly, and Dizzee welcomes what he sees next: bursts of color and an older Thor, standing in the rain, and parked cars with steamed up windows. There are chilly nights, and fancy dresses, unnamed wars, and history in the making.

Dizzee doesn’t dream because he doesn’t have to. He dreams because he wants what’s his for the taking.

“If we aren’t,” he says, lips brushing dangerously close to Thor’s, eyes wicked with awareness aimed at putting it all to good use. “Then I plan on spending every lifetime making sure we are.”

With no guarantees, Dizzee finally kisses Thor for the first time and the last time and a million in between.


End file.
